


The Year After

by Iomhar



Series: Alternate Universe Hunger Games [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, District 7 (Hunger Games), F/M, Hunger Games worldbuilding, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Original Arena(s) (Hunger Games), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Capitol (Hunger Games), Worldbuilding, all the vases have been smashed, i can't stop writing, why did I write so much?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 81
Words: 127,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25176202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iomhar/pseuds/Iomhar
Summary: Pain and nightmares haunt Juniper, the victor of the 140th Hunger Games.  With the guidance of her former mentor, Juniper begins to forage her way through the chaos and frustration of trying to mentor her first year as victor.  Perhaps it would be more manageable if her tribute had better prospects, or maybe if unwanted rumors didn't get spread to the eager gossips of the Capitol.  Regardless, she must use her skills and deal with her bubbling anger as best she can to give her tribute the chance she deserves.This is the story of an 18-year-old girl who overcame the odds and emerged victorious, only to be broken by the life that follows.  And perhaps it is also the story of a girl who slowly begins to heal despite the tragedy she's been dealt.This AU explores the behind-the-scenes of the Hunger Games from the perspective of a new mentor.  And all the drama, chaos, romance, and vase-smashing that goes with it.
Series: Alternate Universe Hunger Games [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886524
Comments: 100
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a novel I wrote that wasn't supposed to be as long or as intense as it turned out to be. It's the story of a girl who struggles with her first year as mentor after her victory in the arena, and it's the story of the people who support her and those who tear her down. I hope you enjoy it because I had a great time writing it. I know the number of chapters is a bit daunting, but they are more or less bite-sized. Have fun, and thank you for your consideration.
> 
> PS - the last chapter is a character list for reference. View at your own discretion since there may potentially be spoilers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper returns to her first reaping as victor. Her former mentor, Pitch, will be helping guide her in her mentor duties.

_“I am proud to present the victor of the 140 th Hunger Games, Juniper Sadik of District 7!”_

_The camera panned across the hellscape that had once been a thriving garden, briefly showing the corpses of two tributes maimed and disfigured on the ground, and rested finally on the bloodied, battered seventeen-year-old girl kneeling in the flower beds. The axe supported her weight, and though she rose her head up towards the sky as though embracing her new title with pride, it was only the motion of the hovercraft above that caught her attention and drew her out of her pain-induced stupor. But the camera captured that one glistening moment in which this tribute, blood saturating her shredded uniform and splashed against her brown skin, accepted her fate as victor._

I snap off the television and hoist myself to my feet. I hadn’t meant to watch that, especially not today, but it had slipped up on me. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like that girl with the feverish eyes and the sweat dripping down her face is me. It’s my same large eyes and thick eyebrows and disheveled brown hair, but it doesn’t _look_ like me at all.

There is a sharp rap at the door, and I toss the remote control on the couch. I’m already dressed. Boots, formal pants, a crisp blouse. My hair is pinned back on both sides to keep it out of my face. It seems strange that I have dressed myself without the assistance of my prep team and stylist, but today I am not the center of attention—it’ll be the first time in a whole year that I was not the one everyone would be watching.

After a brief pause to adjust my hair clips in the hall mirror, I open the door to find my fellow victor and former mentor, Pitch, standing on the doorstep.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

“Need to say goodbye to your parents?” Pitch suggests. He looks casual in a pair of slacks and a collared shirt, but the way his eyes flicker up and over my shoulder repeatedly reminds me that no amount of preparation can truly prepare a mentor for his tasks. He is on edge.

“Already done,” I reply. Once a mentor, always a mentor, making sure that I am on top of things and keeping my parents in the loop. It doesn’t bother me anymore, the way that he is always checking on me and keeping me under his wing. It’s just a part of life now. But now I’m a mentor myself, and it’ll be me who has to keep my tribute in line.

We walk side-by-side towards the center of town. We could have been driven. Some of the victors drove, or they had others drive them, but neither Pitch nor I are much for driving, not when there is an option to walk. Walking helps clear one’s mind and organize one’s thoughts. And a nice, peaceful day like this allowed one to let one’s mind wander from the present concerns at hand.

But one’s former mentor did not.

“Ideally, you wouldn’t be a mentor in your first year as victor,” Pitch says suddenly.

“So you’ve told me,” I reply dryly.

There’s a silence for a moment, and I think the issue is dropped—I am a mentor this year whether I like it or not—but then Pitch says, “I guess it’s better now than later.”

“I mean,” he says after another pause, “you’ll never really get used to it. So it’s not like waiting a year or two or ten is really going to make a huge difference.”

“It might for the tribute I’m mentoring,” I reply. “They’d probably like someone who has seen a few Hunger Games more than me.”

Liberty, for example. She is quite old and had mentored for many years. She laughed when it was suggested that she mentor again this year. “The child would do better than this old hag,” the woman had said. “When was the last time I brought a tribute to victory?” Even if the comment were directed at me, I couldn’t answer that; there hadn’t been a great many District 7 victors over the years (though certainly more than in many other districts), so I doubted that any of the mentors had a great record.

I think of them now. In all of District 7’s history, there had been a total of 15 victors. Of those fifteen, six were still alive. Their numbers had dwindled over the years. Some had passed away due to old age, others wasted away from alcohol, and still others had met their early ends. Liberty is the oldest alive. She is crippled with age and arthritis, but her mind is keen and deadly. The victor in her is still quite alive and well. After Liberty there is Bris, who had mentored some of the stronger candidates over the few years, including Pitch himself. Bris had told them that he needed a break. Pitch had argued, but it was useless. Even I could see the way the man’s shoulders sagged and his strong jaw trembled at the mention of another year mentoring.

Vesa was somewhere in between Bris and Pitch, but she is nine months pregnant and due any day now. It would be cruel to put her through something like mentoring.

Finally, there is Elm, a couple years younger than Pitch, who was slated to be a mentor, but a sudden illness took him out of play. That’s why I’m here, about to plunge into the unknown.

Pitch grunts in reply to my statement. “They’d probably like it if they weren’t in the Hunger Games at all, but they aren’t going to get what they’d like,” he says.

That doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it only makes things worse. The tributes would have nothing in their favor now.

I distract myself by watching little squirrels scamper through the trees, darting around great, hearty beings that tower high above our heads. Their needles and branches give us shade, and they allow room for the squirrels to skitter back and forth. Last year, I was so worried that I will never see them again. This year, I know that I will return, and yet I find myself aching at the thought of going weeks without these beautiful trees.

When we reach the district square, I find myself coming to a complete stop. Suddenly it feels as though I were yet another kid in the crowd waiting feverishly for the afternoon to come to an end so that I could get back to my cozy home in the woods. For several years I had huddled with those great throngs of people as they shifted uneasily from foot to foot and prayed that their own names wouldn’t be chosen. And for a few flickering moments, I think—I actually think—that I am one of them, and the terror that they feel is what I feel, too. The fear is there, is palpable.

Pitch’s hand rests gently on my shoulder and guides me up the stairs onto the dais where five chairs have been set up for the victors. I blinked quickly to bring myself back to the present. I’m not a district kid anymore. I have no need to fear the reaping. I am alive. My family is alive. Everything is okay. Taking a few strong breaths, I hold up my head and walk to my designated seat.

Liberty and Bris are already here. They look quite comfortable in their seats, and it makes me feel so childish as I wipe the sweat from my palms onto the thighs of my pants. Not an ounce of fear or apprehension comes from their direction, though I’m certain it radiates off me quite well. Pitch and I take our seats. Normally Elm would be sitting in between us, but since he’s sick, there is no chair for him. My hands shake. Pitch quietly puts his hand over mine, and at first the warmth is comforting. But I slip my hand away; I am not a child and I will not let the Capitol or anyone else think that I need to hold someone’s hand to get through this or any other ordeal.

Vesa waddles on stage, her bloated belly pushing the limits of her dress. People keep asking if she is having multiples—twins, even triplets—and she just laughs. She hasn’t let anyone know what she is having or how many.

The escort, a woman by the name of Lala, stands tall next to our Mayor, Barbara Oak. They look almost comical together: the tall, thin Capitolite paired with the sturdy, stern middle aged woman. But right now, I can’t find it within me to appreciate the humor. In fact, it’s all I can do to glaze over and not listen to the usual speeches (though Mayor Oak is always mercifully brief in this matter).

I tune back in just in time to see Lala lean over the large bowl holding thousands and thousands of small strips of paper.

District 7 is a large district, and as I look out onto the crowd, I can truly appreciate the number of strips of paper in that bowl. There are children as far as the eye can see, squished into the clearing and piled back into the alleyways. Some kids don’t even get to be this close and have to watch from neighboring community centers and parks. But the Capitol always makes it as convenient as possible with massive screens displaying live feeds of the reaping so that nobody could escape it.

 _You are safe. Your family is safe. You have no reason to fear,_ I tell myself. It is a mantra I’ve repeated all morning when the terror threatened to choke me. And yet I can’t swallow away the lump that has lodged in my throat. There are many names in that bowl I know, but statistically, none of them would be chosen. District 7 has many elementary and high schools scattered throughout the region. Only on a few occasions had kids from my school been chosen.

“Our female tribute for the 141st Annual Hunger Games is . . .” Lala’s voice doesn’t really match her appearance, nor the setting. It’s musical. Pleasant. Every syllable is carefully enunciated for the microphones. But the words she speaks are horrible. Her slender fingers swish around through the bowl of papers and at last pulls out the name of the condemned. “. . . Ponderosa Funar!”

I feel a relief washing through me that I wasn’t expecting. A guilty sort of relief. _It’s not my name,_ is the first thing I think, which of course makes sense because my name wasn’t in that bowl. I’ve already been a tribute. And then I realize that I am also relieved that I don’t know the girl, which makes me feel quite wretched because it doesn’t matter if I know her or not—she is still going to her death.

It takes several minutes before the girl is located, probably in one of the overflow areas. At last the crowd parts ever so slightly, and two peacekeepers come through with the girl between them. She walks quietly, head bowed, and between the two burly men, she looks quite small.

But as she climbs up the steps to the dais, I realize that she _is_ small. The girl looks barely ten years old, though I know she has to be at least twelve to be reaped. A scream wells up in my throat, and my hands instinctively go to my mouth to suppress it. This can’t be happening! This isn’t fair! The little girl, a pale thing with limp brown hair, takes a big, shaky breath that causes her entire body to tremble.

Pitch is grabbing my arm, pulling my hand away from my mouth. I know. Immediately I lower my hands. The cameras will be focused on the girl and not me, but it would be pretty bad to have a victor freaking out onstage.

But she is a _child_. There is no hope for a child, none at all.

“Dear me, aren’t you just so cute!” trills Lala as she pats the girl on her cheek. Then she turns back to the crowd and nears the other bowl of names, the little girl forgotten behind her.

“And our male tribute is…” Once more, that hand twirls around the bowl before withdrawing with a single piece of paper. “…Evergreen McConnell!”

This time, the tribute is in the main crowd. It still takes some time to locate him, but the crowd parts around his simple form and he begins to make his way up.

To my horror, this tribute, too, is also a child. Twelve, maybe thirteen. He appears to be on the cusp of puberty, and that is being generous.

I feel myself swaying in my seat, and Pitch shifts uneasily by my side. It’s only by digging my fingernails into my thighs that I can calm myself enough to see through the rest of the “ceremony.” Lala has an arm around the shoulders of each of the tributes and is thanking the audience for coming. The peacekeepers begin to lead the tributes away, and that is my cue.

I jump up and run off stage.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper and Pitch meet their tributes on the train to the Capitol.

“It’s not fair,” I hiss at Pitch between clenched teeth. We’re on the train waiting for our tributes to arrive so we can begin our journey to the Capitol.

“I know it’s not fair,” he snaps back at me. “But it’s the Hunger Games. Nothing about this is fair.”

And don’t I know it. But still the anger seethes within me, and I feel the hatred that I had recently begin to quell now slosh through me. Children! These weren’t teenagers—they were kids.

My hand juts out before I can control it, and I swipe a whole line of beverages off the table and onto the floor. They splash and fizzle onto the carpet, but I’m so angry that I don’t care what I’ve wrecked, even if it means that an avox will spend an extra hour cleaning up after my tantrum.

“That’s not helping!” Pitch’s voice is sharp and tense. Like he is on the verge of a precipice, looking down into certain doom. And he is. We all are. There is no way we could get either one of our tributes to victory this year.

Hot tears are in my eyes now, and I lean back against the wall. I’m fighting to keep them from rolling down my cheeks.

Pitch is standing in front of me now. He grabs my chin in his hand and forces me to look up at him. I try to pull away from the sudden and pinching grip, but he won’t move.

“Don’t.” He stares me hard in the eye. “You need to keep it together. In a week, maybe two, this will all be over. But until then, don’t.”

We stare at each other for several long seconds before I wrench myself away from him. This time, he doesn’t fight me.

I turn my back to him and dab my eyes with the hem of my sleeve, careful to not smear the tears across my skin. What is wrong with me? I can’t just go crying over every tribute I come across. I won my Hunger Games by being strong, not by sniveling and sobbing. I bite the inside of my cheeks hard to pull myself together, and I force myself to take a long, deep breath to clear my mind. I am a victor. I am a mentor. I need to be strong both for the tributes and also for myself. I cannot show the Capitol that they unnerve me so much.

At last, I turn back to face the compartment and Pitch. He is still watching me, his eyes carefully assessing every feature on my face.

“I’m fine,” I say shortly. I’m not, but of course I’m not. He knows it, but he says nothing.

The tension is interrupted by Lala: “Oh my goodness, what happened here?!”

“Ants,” I reply. There’s still anger in my voice. But if she notices it, she says nothing about it.

“We’ll have this cleaned up right away. Need to make a good impression for those tributes. They are going to love this train ride!” Lala is looking not at us, but at her tablet, where she pokes a few buttons. Almost immediately, an avox hurries out to clean up the mess.

And then she is gone, leaving Pitch, myself, and the avox in silence.

When the avox leaves, Pitch looks over at me.

“The key to being a mentor is knowing that your tributes look up to you,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, but continues, “No matter what. They see you as their last hope.”

I swallow hard. My throat burns. I don’t feel well. I might faint. But I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. No words can come up through my burning throat. It doesn’t matter. Pitch is continuing, and it seems that every sentence he says is harder and harder for him to admit.

“You need to be that hope, even if they are sick or injured or crippled or . . . young. But at the same time you need to . . . you need to protect yourself.”

How? I don’t ask. I can’t ask. I might vomit.

Pitch sits himself down on the edge of an armchair. He is still looking at me, and I can see pain clearly in his eyes. And it occurs to me what he is saying.

Year after year. He had hope. He gave us hope. He gave us a piece of himself. And the years went on with death after death after death.

He did what he could to help his tributes live, even if there was no reason for him to believe that we would. And now, years later, it has left a pain that is great and gaping but only visible if you know where to look.

I’m cold now, all heat flushed out of my body. This is my future. This is where I am. I am alive and I was so thankful to be alive, but here I am about to coach other children how to die gracefully. The coldness is in my chest, and I feel my lungs freeze. Because this will repeat over and over and over and I will watch so many of them die.

Even if I wanted to cry, I can’t. My entire body is frozen.

“I will help you,” he says at last. He turns away from me, and his eyes glaze over. “I will always help you.”

We stay there in silence for quite some time. The avox returns and replaces the drinks that I had destroyed. And then we hear the sound of Lala’s voice again, this time coaxing the new tributes behind her.

“…This is where we’ll be for the next day. It will be a wonderful time, so enjoy it. Bet you haven’t gone as fast as you will when you’re on this train.”

“Once, my dad, he took us on a car that went really fast,” came the voice of the boy tribute. Evergreen. “I hope this train goes faster. Wow.”

Lala walks in now, steps to the side, and sweeps out an arm dramatically. The two tributes stare wide-eyed at the compartment with all of the foods and drinks spread across the table, the plush chairs, large windows overlooking the train station, and two victors standing right before them. They’re so tiny, these two kids. The girl is maybe 4’10”, and the boy is about 5’1.” Both of them are thin, and I doubt either of them have seen any manual labor.

“Oh! You won last year!” says the boy with great enthusiasm. He rushes over to me, stopping just a couple inches away. It’s all I can do to not shrink away from him. I’m not ready for this level of excitement right now. “Great! Are you going to be my mentor?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I still feel cold and frozen. My tongue won’t work.

“No, I will be your mentor,” Pitch says. He stands up and comes over to join me. I am relieved, though because Pitch took this little bundle of crazy off my hands or because of the other victor’s mere presence, I don’t know.

“You,” he says, motioning to the girl, “will be with Juniper.”

The girl nods solemnly.

“Ponderosa, right?” I ask.

“Rosa,” she responds. Her voice is flat and quiet.

“Alright, Rosa, we will—”

“I don’t want to die!” the girl blurts out. Then she buries her head in her hands and starts to sob with great, heaving gasps that wrack her entire body.

We all stand there stunned. And none no more stunned than myself because now I am thinking only of what Pitch said, of how I will be this girl’s last hope. I feel like crying myself, but I force myself to push away from the wall, stand up straight, and look down at the girl.

“Well, I don’t want you to, either,” I say for lack of better things. “So let’s get on with it. We can talk over some lunch.”

Rosa lifts her head from her hands. Tears are streaking her face and her eyes are red. Snot pours out of her nose, and I grab a cloth napkin from the table and thrust it into her hands. Her fingers wrap around the fabric for a moment before she presses it against her nose and exhales.

I feel like everyone in the room is judging me right now, seeing how I handle this little girl. I know that I will be judging myself later. I remember how Pitch always had a guiding hand to help me find my way, and I reach out to Rosa. Gently I nudge her towards the table. She follows my direction and teeters over towards the table while I pour a glass of soda and fill up a plate with various bite-size sandwiches and the sort for my tribute. Evergreen is by my elbow helping himself to his own plate, filling it up with as much as it can hold.

When I first got to the Capitol, I was flabbergasted by the sheer amount of food waste. Now, however, I have grown accustomed to the fact that people won’t finish their entire meals, so I don’t bother trying to tell Evergreen to limit the amount that he’s piling on.

After everyone gets situated at the table, there is a brief round of introductions. Evergreen wants to be called “Green” which is fair enough since otherwise it’s a mouthful. Both tributes struggle with the fact that we want to be called by our first name only, without “Mr.” or “Miss” attached, but they seem to accept easily that things will be different from hereon out. And Green chuckles a bit at the fact that Lala doesn’t have a last name (as she tells us—I haven’t bothered to find out if this is actually true). We eat our food and I force myself to finish what I have given myself. Neither of the tributes need to be told to eat up since they have both helped themselves to seconds. Rosa finally appears brave and comfortable enough to go back and refill her own plate which is good because I have no desire to wait on her the entire time she’s in the Capitol.

“You two will have a unique angle,” Pitch is telling them. “Both of you so young. How old are you?”

“Twelve,” they answer in unison.

What are the chances of that? Each year, the number of times your name goes into the bowls increases, so it’s not very common for a twelve-year-old to be reaped—though not unheard of by any means. And to have two of them from one district is quite unusual.

What sort of “unique angle” is Pitch talking about? These kids are going to get picked off first thing. They’re easy kills, and they will be some of the first to go.

“What about your . . . strengths?” I say hesitantly. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but it seems to be in the right direction. “Do you guys have any skills or whatever?”

It takes them a moment to answer. Green answers first. I’m not surprised by this. “Yeah, I was goalie on my soccer team. Also, I have highest score in my grade in school. And I can run really fast. But I don’t know how to use any weapons. Do you think that will be a problem? I think it’ll be a problem. But my friends and I were talking about whether we’d be reaped or not, and we think that I might be able to win by running very quickly.”

“Um, great,” I say. It’s not great. But I nod politely before glancing at Pitch. He sits there steadily watching Green, observing him as he did me earlier.

Rosa speaks up, “I help with the gardening, so I know a lot of plants, including wild ones. And, um, I’m not really fast, but I can climb okay. Except when it’s wet then I fall a lot.”

“Okay, cool.” And now I’m out of things to say.

There’s a silence, and then Pitch says, “It’s good you know both your strengths and weaknesses. We will be working on this in the next week. However, I think it’s a good idea to watch the other reapings right now so we know who our competition will be.”

It sounds cruel to make these little children watch the reapings to choose which ones will kill them, but I know that Pitch is right. They are tributes, and they can’t be spared anything because of their age. That will only harm them in the long run.

Standing up from the table, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom while the others begin to migrate towards the lounge car. There will be more food and drinks in there—snacks and appetizers—and then we can all snuggle in and watch the reapings together. Ugh. This is worse than I imagined.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still on the train, the mentors discuss their plans after the tributes have gone to sleep for the night.

I find Pitch in the lounge later that night. The tributes have long retired to their own compartments, and the staff is nowhere to be seen. Pitch sits on one end of the couch watching the various reapings for the umpteenth time, it seems. His forehead rests against his hand, propped up at an angle so that at first it’s hard to tell if he is awake or asleep. I shuffle in and sit down on the opposite side of the couch.

I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Last year when I was a tribute, Pitch was there and always seemed so . . . solid. He is right; he was my last hope. That’s how I saw him, and that’s why I relied on him. Hell, that’s why I still rely on him. He was my last hope and he pulled me through it all. And now he looks beaten, weathered, and battered, like a boat left on the docks of a long-forgotten lake. The flickering glow of the television alternatively illuminates and casts into shadow his thick frame, now so hunched and defeated. Was he like this last year, strong when I was present and then withered away when no one was looking?

Words don’t come, so I turn and watch the reapings. It’s a quick recap showing off the various tributes. The Careers are all pretty hearty looking, as they always are, and some of them appear more bloodthirsty than others. One of them is fourteen, which is pretty rare since they are always volunteers and the complicated process of choosing the tributes tends to favor the older ones who have waited longer for the “privilege” of going to the Hunger Games. Both from District 5 are eighteen year olds. As are Districts 8 and 9. The rest of the districts have a mixture of 15, 16, 17, and 18 year olds. District 12 has a thirteen year old and an eighteen year old. So District 7 is the odd one out with two very young children.

I close my eyes for a moment, but the image of the bloodbath is emblazoned on the insides of my eyelids. I realize it’s my own bloodbath, but now it has two twelve year olds who get splattered as soon as the gong sounds.

My eyelids shoot open.

“What do we do?” I ask, my voice trembling. “They’re going to get killed right away. Targeted.”

“I know, I know,” Pitch says crossly. He rubs a hand across the stubble on his cheek and leans his head against the back of the couch, staring now at the ceiling. He groans.

“They’re going to have to have some sort of powerful alliance, but who is going to want to team up with kids? They’re just going to drag everyone down. I would have been pissed to have kids in my alliance, and I don’t know what all the other tributes will do,” I’m babbling now, but the words keep pouring out. “There is no way they’re going to make it past the bloodbath. How do we give kids hope if we know that it’s hopeless? Doesn’t there have to be hope to begin with for us to instill it up on the others?”

“Shut up, I know,” Pitch replies, cutting me off. “And keep your voice down. If they hear you. . . .”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say quickly, and then I fall into silence.

I pick absently at the hem of my shirt and stare at the television screen. They’ve switched from the recaps to showing some of the Games—just quick little clips—of the various mentors. I see a few that I remember in recent years, but most are older. The recaps feature various highlights (most involving blood and guts) to showcase the mentors’ skills. I don’t want to know what my skills are. I’d like to think that the skills I used in the arena are different from the skills I will use as a mentor.

Now they’re showing Pitch’s Hunger Games. He was younger then, a bit thinner. Not that he’s fat now, but he has had plenty to eat and access to gyms and such, so he’s lost that lean athleticism that he once had. Maybe I will, too, in another fifteen or so years. They show Pitch evading pursuing tributes, and then clip to him landing the final blow. The announcer’s voice proclaims him the victor of the 125th Hunger Games. I know they’re going to show my Games next, and I brace myself, but then Pitch reaches over to the remote and flicks off the television.

“Let’s go to sleep. We’ll reconvene in the morning,” Pitch says.

Neither of us move.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” I admit.

“Neither will I,” he agrees.

How can one sleep when the life of a person is in your hands? I feel like I have just gotten over the worst of the nightmares—at least, the worse of the nightmares on a consistent basis—only to have been plunged into this terrible situation. Even if I tried to sleep, I’d just be tormented by my demons.

“Is it always like this?” I ask him. I don’t want to outright ask if it was this bad last year because I’m not ready for that answer.

Pitch snorts. “No,” he says. “Some years it’s not half bad. Other years it’s awful. On one hand, you want the years where it’s easier, but then you feel like shit because you realize that you’ve pretty much signed the kid’s death certificate because they’re so annoying that you’ve given up, or they are pretty self-reliant and you kind of let them steer themselves which can only end in catastrophe.”

If that’s the case, I guess I must have been one of the awful years because I was neither annoying nor self-reliant. I’d describe myself as moderately clingy or maybe too terrified to move. But I went through the motions and learned skills and made alliances because that’s what I had to do. I wasn’t brave enough or clever enough to be on my own or to shirk the training stations.

“Have there been years like this one? Where there are two twelve-year-old tributes from one district?” I ask.

Pitch thinks about it for a moment. “I’m not certain. I can look into it, though.”

Good. That will give us a starting point. I think. I’m not sure if that’s where I’m supposed to start.

“Fine year to make you a mentor,” he mutters. He’s still staring at the ceiling, and he rubs his eyes.

“Well, you said it yourself. I have to be a mentor sometime, so better sooner rather than later,” I say. “And besides, I have to get used to tributes dying on me regardless.”

My words come out bitter. Not towards Pitch, though I know it may sound like it. It’s not his fault that we were put into the arena and that we fought for our lives. It’s not his fault that our lives afterwards are full of misery and hatred. I’m bitter towards the Capitol, though I will never, ever say it anywhere that the Capitol can overhear. Which is pretty much anywhere.

“That’s the beauty of being a victor,” Pitch says without emotion.

I nod, though I’m not sure he sees me.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier. About strengths and weaknesses,” I say. I take a moment to rummage in my pocket before pulling out a slip of paper. “So I wrote down what Rosa and Green said were their strengths and stuff.”

At the time, it had seemed like a really good idea, like I was being a great mentor. I had paid attention to the tributes, and I was going to help them win. But now I feel deflated and empty. The paper in my hand, crinkled and blotted with ink stains, looks amateurish.

Pitch sits up straight, leans over, and takes the paper from me. I release it and watch as he squints in the dim light and reads through it. His lips silently mouth the words. It’s a short list, but we also didn’t push the subject too much earlier today.

“Okay,” Pitch says. He hands the paper back to me, and for a second I think that he sees how silly my small attempt at being a mentor is. But instead he continues, “Larger paper. We need to write down their strengths and weaknesses. Then how to combat the weaknesses. And how to utilize the strengths.”

Hope flutters within me, and I no longer feel quite so cold. Instead, there is a soft breeze rustling the pine needles inside my chest, and I wonder if there could possibly be a way to guide these kids through the arena. I jump up and retreat to my car of the train. I am back in under a minute, this time with a pad of paper and several colorful pens.

Pitch guides me through the instructions. It’s a basic chart, the name of each tribute, the strengths in one column and the weaknesses in the other. I make a separate page for each of them because even though right now we are working together, at some point our paths for mentoring our tributes may change. Since our tributes are so similar, I doubt that there will be much deviation, but I’d rather not have to rewrite my charts again.

“Green has no impulse control. Write that down,” Pitch instructs. He watches me keenly as my pen glides across the paper. “He’s also too eager to share with people.”

And for the next ten minutes, we take turns making suggestions about the various character flaws of our tributes (more notably Green since he is more willing to interact with us) with the occasional strength peppered in. Then we move on to the physical limitations—the fact that neither of them are large, that neither of them know how to use any weapons—and we try to build a plan for each of them that utilizes their skills to compensate for what they don’t know. Green is little, but he’s spry. He can’t hold a large weapon, but he’d probably kick ass with a slingshot. (“Don’t overlook the little things,” Pitch instructs me, “even when it seems like they won’t hold up against everyone else’s talents and training.”) Rosa is sweet, and it’s unlikely that many tributes would be willing to kill her even if the Careers would be gunning to take her out first thing.

“We—you—will need to give her an angle, something that will give her an edge in the arena,” Pitch says. My pen is finally motionless for the moment as I listen to him. “Every tribute has an angle, as I told you last year, and there’s no reason to pretend that she’s something she’s not. She can’t be presented as a ruthless killer. Would never hold up.”

“She is too young to be sly or strong or anything like that,” I say. “I mean, we can say that she’s agile, but isn’t every small tribute taking that angle?” There were at least three last year who tried to present themselves as nimble, sneaky, and clever. It’s very overdone, and it seems to be the default for kids who can’t hold a weapon without hurting themselves.

“However, she is innocent,” Pitch says.

“Aren’t most of them?”

“None look it more than her,” he says. “We will see if we can get her a protector—someone who is willing to take her under their wing in the arena. That might be her only chance at survival.”

I rub my eyes wearily. “And let’s say that she’s made it to the finale. Does she just out-cute everyone until they’re dead?” I grumble.

“Then she is on her own,” Pitch says.

I hate it. I lower my hands and stare at him. “Excuse me?”

Pitch looks wearily at me. “At some point in the arena, you realize that your tributes are out of your hands. They make their own choices. You can support them with sponsorship gifts—if you get any—but they need to make their own way through the arena.”

“So I just abandon her there? ‘Great job, kiddo. You’ve made it to the top eight. Here’s a swift kick in the ass to help you along. Have fun now.’” My eyes lock hard on my former mentor. “Is that what you did to me?”

Pitch groans. “Yes, okay? I’m not sure what else to tell you. I could line up the sponsorships and reward you for a job well done, but otherwise you were on your own. You had to fight your own battles and pay for your own missteps. I couldn’t do anything about that.”

His words sink into me. It only makes sense. He couldn’t teach me a new skill inside the arena, or ask the Gamemakers to direct a mutt away from me. That wasn’t within his control. But the casual bluntness with which he speaks angers me, and my insides grumble.

I stay there only for a few more minutes. Neither of us makes an attempt to speak again, and I’m okay with that. In the silence, I am acutely aware of the motion of the train and the hum from its engine as it carries us along towards the Capitol. Every minute, every mile, we are closer and closer to that spiteful place, and I want nothing more than to be back in District 7. My eyes close, and for a second I almost succumb to sleep, but at the last moment, I force myself off the couch. Without saying goodbye to Pitch, I head back towards my compartment. It is only when I am halfway there that I realize I forgot my list behind, but I am too irritated to return and pick it up. Let it sit there. Let everyone see what we really think about our tributes. I don’t care. I force the anger back down into my chest and slip into my room. When the door is fully closed, I peel off my clothing and head towards the shower.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch introduces Juniper to some of the other victors.

“Firstly, you’re going to go get all made up,” I say to the tributes the next morning after breakfast. Our train has slowed down significantly so we are just crawling along at a walking pace. I know that we are close to the Capitol and are just biding time until they are ready to accept two more tributes. The arrivals are staggered so that not everyone is coming at once. After all, they don’t want the tributes to see each other until tonight at the ceremony.

“You’ll get a bath in some expensive soaps. They’re going to remove any excess hair from your bodies—” I pause a moment, “if you have any, that is. Then they’ll style your hair, and put make-up on you, and whatever else you need.”

“I don’t need make-up,” Green splutters. He drops his fork.

“Tough luck,” I say. “They like to put make-up on everyone. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter. It’s really not that bad.”

“Ugh,” the kid groans.

“I want make-up,” says Rosa. “I never got to wear any.”

“Great, then you’ll like tonight. It’s like a costume party.” That’s the most optimistic way I can describe it. Our stylists for District 7 aren’t bad, but they certainly could be better. Last year, they made us look like statues with great vines wound around our stone bodies. I’m not sure what its significance was supposed to be, but it ended up being somewhat prophetic considering the vines and sculptures within the arena. Still, at least it wasn’t like District 1 whose tributes wore nothing but jewels and sequins.

Rosa grins. “An ugly costume party,” she says. So clearly she’s seen a few Hunger Games.

“Yeah, except don’t say that. The stylists try hard. They’re just . . .”

“Misguided,” Pitch answers as he walks in the room. He’s dressed in fresh slacks, a vest, and a long-sleeve shirt. It’ll be warm in the Capitol, but neither of us will likely see much of any natural daylight, at least not in person. Inside will be kept cool and comfortable.

“Remember what we talked about yesterday with strengths?” he asks them as he takes a seat next to Green, opposite from me. He doesn’t give them a chance to respond. “Today as you are getting all made up for the event, think about your strengths. And also think about your weaknesses. We’ll talk about them again tonight so that we know where to focus tomorrow and the next few days.”

The tributes eagerly agree and the four of us finish our breakfast with nothing more than idle chatter. There is talk of all the things that the Capitol holds—Green is full of questions—but it’s nothing more than curiosity. As I listen to them, I wonder if either tribute understands the gravity of the situation; this is more than just a sight-seeing tour despite the strangeness of it all. This is a murder pageant and they are the stars. My breakfast is light because I know I’ll never be able to keep anything down, but I’m happy to see that both kids are eating heartily. It takes three plates and a bowl of oatmeal before Green is finally finished, and though Rosa eats considerably less, she refills her plate at least twice.

Once the train finally comes to a stop, breakfast is over and the plates have been cleared away. Lala appears and begins to motion for the children to follow after her. I hang back in the dining car and watch as the two tributes eagerly trail after the escort. Green chatters the entire time, asking questions (some of them quite personal, but I feel little sympathy for Lala), and Pitch and I follow after them.

The tributes are transferred to a vehicle to take them to their prep teams, but Pitch and I stay behind. It seems wrong to leave our young charges like this, but he insists that I follow him.

“That is their own time to become acquainted with their style teams,” Pitch reminds me as he leads me to another vehicle. “I want to introduce you to some people.”

I don’t want to meet anyone, but I don’t say anything. Pitch is showing me the ropes, and I’m grateful to have him.

We travel in silence. I hate cars. They could be bugged. And there are a million questions I want to ask Pitch right now, starting with first who these people are. I’m hoping they’re a bunch of avoxes so that I don’t have to do much talking and even less listening. When the car finally comes to a stop, I know that my wish has not been granted. We are at the training center, and my stomach flips.

“Why are we back here?” I croak. I never wanted to see this place again. For some reason, I didn’t think that I’d have to come here. It’s stupid because I know that the mentors stay with the tributes. Still, it hadn’t figured into my understanding of life after victory. It’s not just the arena that’s a horrible place, but the events leading up to it. As victors, we know that we’ll never have to go to the arena again, but some part of me thought that I’d be free from this building for the rest of my life.

“This will be our home base for the next week or two,” he says. He glances at me. “Oh, lighten up. It’s not so bad when you’re not one of the animals to be slaughtered.”

He says it so lightly that I shoot him a glare. Was this the same man who told me that I am to be my tribute’s last hope?

Still, we clamber out of the car, and I have to keep my body from shaking. Like at the reaping, I hold my head up and keep pace with Pitch as we walk through the doors.

The stiff coldness blasts into me the moment I come in. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself trembling so badly that I think I won’t be able to hold myself up much longer. I’m back. I’m back here, and I am just as terrified as I was a year ago. Once again, a sudden rush of fear is upon me as though I am a tribute. It’s so real that I can taste it.

Pitch’s hand is on my shoulder again, bringing me back to the present. I am okay. I am alive. I have no reason to be afraid. I allow him to guide me down a hallway and towards a set of elevators I’ve never used before. We wait for only a few moments before the doors slide open, and then we are gliding up several levels. When the doors open again, we’re presented with another hallway. A thick carpet guides us down the corridor, and I try to take in the number of doors we’re passing so that next time I come here—I suspect I will—I won’t get lost. But my mind is blurry and it’s difficult remembering it all. There is a click, and a door opens to our left. Pitch’s hand leaves my shoulder, and we step into a large room.

Consoles line each side of the wall, and there is a giant window on the opposite side. I’ve seen these sorts of windows before; they are not really windows but an enormous television screen. Right now it displays a view of the Capitol streets as though it is really allowing us a glimpse into the outside world, but a large clock in the bottom right corner counts down the time until the Hunger Games begin. Once the Hunger Games start, the people in this room will not be able to escape it no matter how hard they try. There’s an open doorway to the left of the screen, and another on the adjacent wall, though I can’t see where either goes. My eyes are already returning to the small stations in this room. Each station has a computer screen and a chair. There appear to be cup holders and small trays for food. And I realize that this is the mentor room where we will be tracking our tributes.

“Alright, let’s see who is here,” Pitch says. And it’s only then that I realize that there are people in this room—a lot, actually—and they are all staring at me.

I draw in a deep breath.

“Hey, Pitch, who did you bring here?” calls out one voice. It’s a woman, and she immediately steps forward. Of course she knows who I am—how could she not?—but she pretends not to. She is a tall woman standing well over my 5’7” frame, but slender. Her skin is so dark that it’s almost black, and its smooth and flawless. Her hair is drawn back and interwoven with gold hues. But it’s her smile that really draws me to her. There is something so relaxing about the way she beams at my former mentor as though she is genuinely happy to see him.

“This is Juniper,” Pitch says needlessly. Then to me he says, “Juniper, this is Demeter from District 11.”

It occurs to me that maybe I should have studied up on my fellow victors before I came. I try to recall what year Demeter won, but I knew it was well before my time, maybe even before I was born. The woman standing before me is about forty or so, though it’s hard to tell. Victors don’t always age like most do in the districts since they have all of the Capitol advantages.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say somewhat stiffly, extending a hand.

Demeter grins at me now. “So formal! We don’t really do with formalities when we don’t need them.” But she shakes my hand regardless. Her grip is firm, and I feel that maybe I have already committed a faux pas in the victor world, so I am relieved when she releases my hand.

“Hey, new victor!” comes a call, followed by a whoop shortly afterwards by a second person. Then two victors—a male and a female only a couple years older than me—stroll over.

“Nice to see some fresh blood around here,” says the girl. She has a lopsided grin, and she casually sweeps back her thick blond hair away from her face. Her pine green eyes gleam with delight, and she has pronounced dimples in each of her fair cheeks. It’s Isolde Lee from the 135th Hunger Games. And the guy beside her is Hammer Williams who won the year before. Both are from District 1. I feel myself cringing, stepping backwards. Careers! Ugh!

Pitch is right behind me. “No need to freak her out,” he says, but I hear levity in his voice.

Isolde laughs. “Right. We just said hi.” She winks at me.

Hammer leers down at me. “Just greeting the newest addition,” he adds. He’s not making me feel very welcomed, though I suppose it’s not the point.

And then Pitch is showing me off to everyone. There are at least half a dozen others he introduces me to. Rikuto Cord, the District 6 boy who won the year before me; Colton Farms and Lady McClure from District 10; Gill Tide from District 4. The names and faces start to blur together, and I can’t remember exactly who else he has me greet. It’s funny because even though some of them are Careers—and quite daunting to meet in person—everyone is rather jovial with each other like it doesn’t matter. My shoulders begin to relax a little, and I even start to drift away from Pitch to take in the sights of the room.

It’s amazing, really. Everything is down to a science in this place. Each workstation has its own computer screen—a touch screen—with a small keyboard on the table beneath it. There is a tray and a drink holder that slide out of a compartment so they can be pushed back and out of the way, and the chair looks to be incredibly comfortable. There are twenty-four stations, each one with a number assigned above it. The numbers are in pairs—two 1s next to each other, two 2s next to each other, etc.—and I realize that they have them assigned to each mentor. I find myself drawn to the pair of 7s at the end of a row. This will be for Pitch and myself. This is where we will keep track of our tributes.

“Sorry about your tributes,” says Rikuto, coming up to stand next to me. He does look sorry, and he also looks stressed in general. “But I guess it’s better than losing your tribute in the last day.”

I frown. What? No, it most certainly is not! These are kids we’re talking about, not machines. And this is no simple log-rolling contest. This is for people’s lives. I squint hard at him.

Rikuto shrugs. “You’ll see,” is all he says before he meanders away.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. After all, this is only his second year as mentor. Brushing aside his stupid comments, I turn and survey the rest of the room. There’s those two doors. . . . Throwing a glance at Pitch (he’s nicely wrapped up in conversation with someone), I head towards the open doorways.

The first one I choose is a hallway that leads to the bathrooms. Well, that makes sense. Better than having to leave the room entirely and wander back down the main hallway. The second door appears to be some sort of lounge with a large number of couches and small tables. There are no computer screens in here, but there are televisions. Several potted plants are displayed on tables. A long, empty table is against the far wall, and I imagine they must put food and drink there. And weirdly enough, there is a corner that has one of those running machines (treadmill, I think it’s called?) and a punching bag. What strange decorations. I meander out of the room to find that the conversation Pitch is having is winding down.

Still, I don’t go over to him. Instead I pretend to be engrossed in the finer details of the giant screen. I don’t want to return to Pitch every time I’m not certain what to do. What does that say about me as a mentor if I can’t stand on my own? And I certainly don’t want to willingly engage with any of the other victors. They kind of freak me out, to be honest.

But then Isolde is by my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “C’mon, we’re going out to lunch,” she says.

I stammer a protest. No way do I want to go out with her.

“Where are we going?” asks Hammer, suddenly looming up before us.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Not you. This is for girls only,” she says loudly.

And now everyone is watching us. Pitch is watching me, in the way that he has, as though he is still trying to assess me to see how I will handle the arena. I realize now that it’s an important moment in which people will determine whether I am merely Pitch’s lackey or if I am my own person. Despite my reservations, I know that I have no other choice but to concede.

“Yeah, okay,” I say to Isolde. Because even though I want Pitch to step in and rescue me, it can’t happen.

“Great,” says the District 1 victor. And it’s weird because she looks like she really means it, that she really wants my company.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper goes to lunch with Isolde (District 1), Lady (District 10), and Demeter (District 11) for reasons that she does not understand.

The restaurant Isolde chooses is a small hole in the wall place not far from the training center. She is on first-name basis with the owner, who ushers the four of us—Isolde, Demeter, Lady, and myself—into a small back room where we can enjoy our meal in private. I feel dwarfed by the presence of such powerful people, and I allow Isolde to order me into the seat next to her.

“Us girls have to stick together,” she confides in me with a lower voice.

I don’t know what she wants from me, and this bothers me. My teeth grind together, but I manage to appear polite on the outside at least. Every instinct tells me to get away from her because she is a Career, and yet Demeter and Lady are very much at ease in her presence. So was Pitch, otherwise he wouldn’t have let me leave.

So instead I take in the scenery. I’m not certain what type of food this place serves, but I am grateful for this little room they put us in. It’s small, and there are a couple other tables—both empty—and many photographs on the walls. I don’t recognize all of the places, but they’re beautiful. Each one captures a different emotion: cheer, melancholy, solitude, peace. There are empty fields with wind-blown wheat, great towering mountains, calm lakes, waves breaking across the rocky shorelines. I wish I could stand up and look at them in greater detail, but I know I should sit where I am and pay attention to the conversation, however mundane or confusing it is. The others are chattering away, catching up after their time apart. Demeter got married, Isolde is pursuing a university degree through the Capitol, Lady is considering methods to improve milk production in District 10’s dairies. I have no part in the conversation. A waiter comes by and takes our order partway through, but Isolde places her order for the entire table so that the rest of us don’t have to even touch the menu. Then it’s back to chattering.

“District 7 has had a lot of successes in the past couple decades,” Isolde is saying to the others. Technically it’s to all of us, but I have kind of zoned out. It’s all I can do to hold onto the conversation as the words pass by me.

“Certainly a lot more than District 11,” says Demeter.

“District 10 can do with another winner soon,” says Lady. Unlike the other two, she is more reserved. Her face is narrow and her eyes cautious. But her words are steady. “Not sure if it’ll be this year, though.”

Why do they talk about this so openly, so lightheartedly?

The waiter brings a plate of bread with some sort of oil sauce that I assume we are supposed to dip it into. But I’m not hungry. I feel like I’ll never be hungry again.

“What do you think about your tribute, Juniper?” asks Demeter.

And then I have to talk. I buy myself time by stuffing a large chunk of bread into my mouth and chewing slowly. They are watching me, waiting for my reaction.

So I shrug. “I-unno,” I manage through my mouthful of carbohydrates. They watch me, amused, for a few more seconds before they go back to their conversation, and I am left to swallow a wad of food that I don’t think I can force down my throat.

“Remember that one year when we had five twelve-year-old tributes?” Demeter asks the others. They murmur about it like it has great significance, so I find my ability to speak again.

“What happened?” I ask despite the bread barrier.

“They all got mowed down in the bloodbath,” replies Isolde. “Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom. Easy kills for those Careers.”

My stomach rolls. I wish I hadn’t asked.

I can’t force myself to eat any more, not even when big steaming plates of pastas and mussels and crab appear on our table. I can’t even eat the small salad that is placed in a tiny dish next to my glass of water. Instead I stare intently at the water glass, watching the drops of condensation bead down the side.

“Eat. It’ll get better,” says Lady. When I don’t respond, she reaches across the table, picks up my plate, and scoops a generous portion of pasta on it. “Won’t do your tributes a bit of good if you’re half dead yourself. Eat and keep up your strength.”

I do as I am commanded, though my hand is heavy and the fork might as well be made of concrete. Every movement from plate to mouth to plate is a monumental task. And chewing is almost impossible. Still, I gag down as much of the pastas I manage to make past my lips. The others are talking while eating, and occasionally they shoot me glances.

“What do you think about seeing the Capitol from this angle?” Demeter asks gently.

I shrug. Why do they insist I talk with them?

“Don’t worry too much about it,” she says. She smiles pleasantly at me. “It’s all a big shock. The rest of us have had years to get used to the change.”

“I guess change is one way to put it,” says Isolde. “Such a different culture. So much to learn and all these stupid customs. Like the other day, someone asked me if I wanted iced tea—I was at a restaurant—and I said yes. And the iced tea was brought in by an avox but that avox wasn’t allowed to pour it for some weird customary reason or something, so then even though the avox was quite capable of pouring it, someone else had to come in and do it. Completely weird.”

“I swear I’ll never get used to it,” says Lady.

“Or get used to the weird comments. And the staring,” said Isolde.

“They’ll give up on you eventually,” says Demeter. “When you’re old like me, the novelty wears off.”

Isolde turns to me. “How old are you?” she asks.

I perk up. That’s an easy question. Too easy. She should already know this.

“Eighteen,” I say cautiously.

The three women exchange glances.

“Has anyone talked to you yet?” asked Demeter. “Besides victors?”

I shake my head. “No, I just got here this morning. Haven’t met anyone besides you guys.”

“Just stick close to Pitch, okay,” Demeter says.

“What?” I ask. “What does that mean?” That’s exactly what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to be seen as some sort of childish creature who has to continue to be mentored. My grip on the fork tightens.

Another round of glances.

“So no one’s going to tell me?” I ask. “What does Pitch have to do with this?”

“All we mean is that when you have to leave the training center, don’t do so without Pitch,” says Demeter.

“Why do I need to be babysat?” I ask.

The three women don’t say anything to me, but they are clearly saying something to each other by the way they exchange more looks. I can’t read their expressions though, and I don’t know what they’re trying to convey. Whatever it is, it involves me but I’m not allowed to know.

Irritation tumbles around within me. “Why did you invite me out to lunch?” I demand.

Demeter glances around her, allowing a waiter to fully pass by the door before she turns back to me. When she speaks, her voice is calm but low. “We invited you out to eat because we wanted to,” she says. “That’s the genuine answer. Sometimes we victors like to do things together when we’re in the Capitol. It helps us manage things better. But. . . .”

Her voice trails off as though she is trying to build a carefully constructed sentence in her head before she lays it out before me.

And I’m right. She continues, “Sometimes victors come out of the arena and they can handle themselves just fine. Other times, they need a bit more guidance.”

“I don’t need guidance,” I interject sharply. It’s irrational because I know that I need guidance, and I’m sure it’s very clear to them. But to have someone outright say it to me is another matter entirely. I am just as capable as any of them. I killed people, just like them. I survived, just like them.

“Listen. You’re just quiet and, I dunno, morose,” says Isolde. She doesn’t allow me to interject. “You have to be keen and watchful. Watch everything and everyone. So until you learn that skill, it’s best that you stick with Pitch. Don’t let any of us pull you away from him again.”

Now the anger has flared up within me. I stand up sharply, knocking back my chair and sending my silverware clattering to the floor.

“I’m done here. I’m going back to the training center.”

Morose my ass. I am struggling with the things I did last year and how I can help a couple of helpless tributes this year. If I’m withdrawn from others, there’s probably a damned good reason. If they are too stupid enough to see it, then that’s their prerogative. Before I know it, I am out the door and in the bright sunlight of the Capitol streets.

The fresh air should calm me, but the air here is far from fresh. It’s tainted with the smell of fuel and the sweat of people, for lack of better description. There is nothing crisp and fresh about it, not like back home at District 7. And now in the heat of the day, the sun is burning down on me, so I keep a quick pace and head back to the Training Center. I am relieved when I see the building before me because I have never been in the Capitol like this, and I half expected me to get turned around in the short walk back. My pace quickens as I bound through the door, make a beeline for the elevator, and return to the room I last saw Pitch.

He isn’t here. In fact, nobody is. Shit. 

But I take several breaths to calm down and then plop into the chair at one of the “7” stations. I focus myself and try to pretend like I know what I’m doing and I’m not completely lost. My fingers run across the keyboard which is smooth underneath my touch. We learned how to type a bit in school, and I had learned quickly. It was a skill many of us would need for future work in data entry or management or scheduling. But this keyboard is different than the ones I used; the keys are barely raised above the glossy surface. Not nearly as clunky as the one back home in our classroom.

The computer screen piques my curiosity, so I touch it with my index finger. Immediately the screen comes to life with “Welcome Juniper Sadik, District 7.” And then it displays my own little tribute, Ponderosa Funar, in her school picture, wearing a worn school uniform jumper. She is smiling, though, and I am dismayed to see that she is still missing one of her adult teeth that hasn’t come in quite yet. It makes her look even younger despite the fact that I knew a couple kids who, at age twelve, were still getting in the last of their adult teeth.

I skim through Rosa’s vitals. Her age, date of birth, blood type, height, weight, blood pressure, etc. There is nothing really revolutionary on it. There are several categories that haven’t been filled in yet, such as alliances, sustained wounds, weapons, supplies, and estimated survival time. It’s that last one, as well as the “likelihood of victory” that really piss me off. This little girl has been reduced to mere stats. I know that it must have done the same for me, too, but I’m not angry for myself. There is no reason to be. I’m angry for her.

“Juniper?” I turn around at the sound of Pitch’s voice. “C’mon, we have to get ready for the opening ceremonies.”

I push myself out of the chair and step away from the console. The computer screen immediately dims and blacks out. I find myself falling in pace with Pitch as we leave the room, but I know that once again he is leading me and I am following. Part of me wants to yell at him that I can do this on my own, but I push that part down because I know that this is not the case. As much as I want to rebel against everyone and show those other victors that I am not a mere child, I know that my ability to mentor is about zilch and I need guidance to get me through it. And would not throwing a tantrum show them that I am too immature? What would that get me?

Pitch leads me back down the hallway to the elevators back to the ground floor. Then there is another set of elevators—the main ones, the ones I dread—which lead us to the District 7 apartments. My chest tightens, and I press my shoulder against the cool metal of the elevator. Once again, I tell myself that I am safe and that I am alive. But it’s hard to tell that illogical, emotional part of you that you are safe when you are retracing your steps to a place in which you endured unimaginable suffering. And yet here we are.

The elevator opens, and Pitch and I step out. He begins to walk, but I’m frozen.

Turning to me, Pitch says, “Don’t worry—you’ll get a different room this year.” So I force myself to follow him. My feet shuffle across the carpet, and my pace is slow. How can he move so smoothly, without hesitation? It doesn’t seem right.

At last he motions towards a door. I recognize it as being one of the mentor’s bedrooms, though I had no reason to explore this part of the apartments last year and had only seen the doors from down the hallway. I try the handle, and the door opens to reveal a comfortable room decorated sparsely with pine boughs and candles. A king-size bed is the main feature in the room, though nightstands, a writing desk, and a wardrobe are also present. Each one is carved roughly out of wood, and it’s beautiful. A far better thing than the cold and clinical room that I was in as tribute.

“It’s to give us a piece of home,” Pitch says. He is leaning against the doorway, watching me take in the room. “Now get dressed. Pick whatever you want out of the wardrobe because the cameras won’t be on us tonight.”

He leaves then, closing the door behind him.

I take a quick shower to wash away the grime of the train ride and my brief time in the Capitol. Then I pull on a pair of slacks and a sweater. Nights get cold here, I remember, and since the parade is outdoors, I can expect to be a bit chilly.

For several minutes, I sit at the foot of my bed and think about the lunch engagement. Why did those victors really ask me out? Surely it wasn’t because they felt like it, as they said. It didn’t seem right that Careers and non-Careers would get along together so well after all that was done year after year in the arena. And yet they seemed to genuinely like me, or at least not dislike me. Perhaps they were doing me a favor. . . . But then, what about the hushed conversation and meaningful glances back and forth? There was a whole other conversation going on that I hadn’t been a part of, and it disturbs me greatly when I reflect on it because I am so clueless.

There’s a sharp rap at my door. “Coming,” I reply as I pull on my boots and half-skip, half-stagger over towards the door. I have my shoelaces fastened before I open it, and I’m not surprised that it’s Pitch once again. Together, we leave the apartment and head out to greet our tributes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the tribute parade, Juniper and Pitch overhear a conversation they are not supposed to have heard.

Tasha and Leander, the District 7 stylists, have really done well this year. Both Rosa and Green are dressed in age-appropriate outfits, which is better than some of the tributes get. Their make-up is minimal, and their clothing appears comfortable. This year, they are dressed as little rodents of some sort emerging from a large bush, with the chariot itself decorated up as the bush. But as stupid as that sounds, the important part is that their clothing is not revealing and their makeup not too garish.

“Wow, looks . . . pretty cool,” I manage as Rosa and Green grin at me.

“This is so much better than those people,” says Rosa, nodding over towards the District 9 chariot where the tributes are naked except for some strategically placed wheat shafts that have been tied and twisted into patterns. I wonder if it’s legal to put kids in those sorts of outfits. Not that the Capitol really cares about legality.

“Once we’re back in the apartments, we’ll show you your rooms and have some dinner,” I say to them.

I can see that stage fright is starting to take over. The excitement of the evening is waning away as the chariots from the first couple districts begin to line up, and our tributes realize that they will be up soon. The gleam leaves their large eyes, and they begin to tremble.

“You’re going to be just fine,” I call out to them as their chariot begins to move away from me. I’m not sure if they heard.

Pitch is behind me now, beckoning me to follow him. I do, dodging the District 10 chariot that seems to be gunning right for me.

We head inside and find a comfortable place to sit down on a couch and watch the parade on television. It’s not until I am on the couch a couple feet from Pitch that I realize how tightly clenched my hands are. Slowly I open them, but I can feel that my nails had dug into my palms. Fortunately they drew no blood.

There are other tributes here. Isolde walks over and plops down right between Pitch and me, making herself quite comfortable. At first I’m afraid she will mention this afternoon, but it’s as though the event never happened.

“Wish I had some popcorn,” she says.

No. I start to stand up to move when she grabs my arm and pulls me right back down. I land with an “Oomf!” and shoot her a glare.

“You’re staying right here,” Isolde says without even looking at me. Her eyes are locked on the television.

Various mentors are staggered around the room, some watching and others just here because there’s apparently nowhere else to be.

The parade is dreadfully boring. I don’t know if it has always been this way, and now that I’ve been there, done that it seems a repetitive and pointless, or maybe this is just this particular year. But I am quite relieved when it is over and everyone begins to scatter in their various directions. We wait for our tributes to return, and then the four of us and Lala head upstairs to the District 7 apartments.

Dinner is a casual affair. Lala doesn’t expect much in ways of table manners from either the tributes or the mentors, which is one reason that she is relatively tolerable. Her focus is on the outward appearance and how people outside of this apartment will view us, so she can be rather offensive when it comes to getting ready to go somewhere. But within the confines of the apartments, she will let us eat off the floor if we so feel inclined. All of us sit at the table with decent manners regardless.

The tributes are excitedly chattering about tomorrow and what to expect with training. Lala is giving pointers that may make sense if you’re outside the Hunger Games looking in but won’t be very useful once you’re in the arena. So Pitch steps in, instructing the tributes which stations to go, how best to approach other tributes, and such. I watch Rosa and Green carefully. I think Rosa understands, but for Green, it goes in one ear and out the other. He nods as though he gets it, but he doesn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about my strengths and weaknesses,” Rosa offers as we start on dessert. (Has anyone seen that I have only been pushing food around my plate and not eating it?)

“What do you have?” I asked.

Rosa clears her throat. “Strengths,” she begins. “I am good at gardening and I can climb somewhat. I think I already said those. But I can also use pruning shears and I know a lot about chemicals because that’s what we used in the gardens.”

Gardens. I stifle a shudder. How did I end up with a damned gardener as a tribute?

But Rosa’s still talking, and I must listen. I tune out the nausea and focus on her words. “I’ve used a hatchet once or twice. I mean, like, more than that, but you know what I mean. I don’t use it all the time. Um. I have nice penmanship. Once I went camping with my uncle and saw him light a fire, though he wouldn’t let me try it myself. We did make a tent out of pine boughs, though.”

“And I once won an award at a spelling bee!” Green announces proudly.

“Spelling won’t save you in the arena,” Rosa points out bluntly.

“I know that, _duh_ ,” says Green with a dramatic eye roll. “But I am calm under pressure, see. There were like a couple hundred or maybe a thousand people watching me.”

“Right, well, when you get into training tomorrow,” I start before either of them can continue, “Focus on the survival stations. You won’t learn how to use a new weapon overnight.”

“Green, you know how to use a slingshot?” Pitch asks.

“Yeah,” says the tribute.

“You good at it?”

Green shrugs. “Sure. Knocked out a few birds a few times.”

“Great. That’s your skill. Make sure that you don’t show it to anyone.”

Green grins. Proud, I am sure, to have a secret skill.

Rosa looks at me as though waiting for me to endow upon her a magical skill that she can utilize in the arena. But I can’t. There’s nothing I’ve really thought of yet. So instead I say, “Rosa, pay close attention in the training. See what areas you excel in and which ones you need to work on. Then let me know tomorrow night.”

It seems to satisfy her, and we go back to our dessert.

Dinner ends and we send the kids to bed, telling them that it’s how things work in the Capitol. Neither of them know any better, and we aren’t going to make them stay up late to watch the recap of the parade when they were there themselves. If they were older, perhaps we would sit them down and work on it from a strategic angle, but there is no point, really. It’s best that they rest up.

Pitch catches me in the hallway as I’m about to retire for the night. I brought a couple books from home, and I’m hoping they distract me well enough that I don’t have to think about the Hunger Games at all until the nightmares come. But even a few moments of reprieve would be appreciated.

“Good job tonight. With Rosa and Green,” he says.

I nod, unable to say anything. How can I describe the overwhelming hopelessness that I feel in my chest when I look at those two tributes? Surely no words are needed; surely Pitch himself feels it. I lean against the wall and look up at him.

“It will get harder,” he says. “I’m sorry. I wish I could say otherwise. It wouldn’t be so bad if they would just . . . reap them and throw them in the arena the next day. Instead we get to spend time with them and bond with them and . . . .” He falters.

Do I comfort him? What does one say in a situation like this? I think of our conversation yesterday, of how he went through this year after year. In inhale deeply to calm myself.

“Pitch, the other victors . . . .” I start, but then I don’t know where to go with it. I want to mention what they said, about sticking closer to him and honing my observations skills. I kind of want to complain about it because it might help relieve some of the pressure from my brain, but then I realize that it would be extremely stupid and selfish to bring up something so trivial.

“They’re messed up. We’re all messed up,” he says when I don’t finish my thought. “I don’t think there is a way to get around that.”

“The Career victors . . . we get along with them?” I ask.

“They’re as much in this as we are. Some of them you’ll want to stay away from, but Isolde and Hammer aren’t bad. They’re mostly just for show.”

Right, but I can’t get over how Hammer sized me up when we first met. And I have no desire to spend any time with Isolde.

“Damn, what a stupid name. Hammer,” I manage to say.

Pitch chuckles.

But our conversation is interrupted by Lala from the sitting room, no doubt thinking she is alone. She’s on her phone and she keeps her voice low, but we’re still able to hear it.

“…Yeah, it’s just completely not fair,” she is saying to the phone. “How am I supposed to get promoted when I’m handed _this_ lot? Twelve year olds? They won’t make it more than a couple minutes. And then there’s the problem with the mentor…”

I start. Me? Am I the mentor? There is no problem with me. And how _dare_ she talk about the tributes that way? They’re ALIVE. They’re not merely stepping stones on her path to success. I begin to move towards her, but Pitch’s arm moves out and he blocks my path, nudging me back to where I was. I comply, but barely, because I am once again listening to the escort.

“District 7 is a filthy place, and I was so looking forward to being out of there,” she whispers. There’s a longing and desperation in her voice. “This _will_ be my last year with District 7, I’ll see to that. I’ll just have to figure out a way to spin it so that the failure of this district doesn’t fall on me. Listen, I’m about to get in the elevator, so I’ll talk with you in a bit.”

The phone goes silent as the elevator doors slip open. Lala’s heals click against the carpet as she steps inside. And with a soft whoosh, the doors close behind her.

Pitch and I are silent for several long seconds. I press my palms against the smooth, cool wall and try to regain my composure. Every ounce of me wants to pounce away from here, tear down the hallway towards the elevator, and hunt that woman down. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find her, but it will surely be a horrible thing. Maybe I’ll gut her and then I’ll throw her entrails—

Pitch puts an arm around me, pulling me close to his side. I’m so startled by this that it wakes me from my murderous plans.

“This is why I didn’t want you to be a mentor,” he says quietly. His voice strains. “It’s one thing to know that the Capitolites hold these beliefs but it’s another entirely to be witness to it.”

“I’ll have to learn eventually.” I gulp for breath to keep myself calm. But it’s breath after breath that I need to take in to keep myself level, and I can feel myself getting lightheaded.

Pitch faces me, pulls me closer, and kisses my forehead gently.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. But it takes me a moment to move. He releases me, and I step back, not certain if I really want to be that close to him. He’s my mentor. He’s my senior. And . . . and I don’t really know. For a brief moment, I was comforted, calmed. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, at least I don’t think so, and I wouldn’t mind if he did it again. But he doesn’t of course.

A sound down the hallway draws my attention—Pitch turns, too—but there is nothing there.

“Probably just the elevator,” Pitch says. I nod, give the hallway one last look, and then head to my bedroom where I lay on the bed and try to hold onto that moment of calm in the sea of nightmares.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper and Pitch discuss how to handle the conversation they overheard the night before.

_The arena is so large and complex that I can’t begin to understand it. I wish I had a map, but I’m only a tribute and we don’t have those things. The viewers at home would—at least, they would have the pieces of the arena revealed to them as the tributes discovered more and more of it. In the end, they’d receive a jigsaw puzzle map to help them keep track of their favorite tributes._

_From here, I can see the hedge maze looming up in the distance. I don’t want to go there. Hell no, I don’t want to go there. So I run away, heading towards what appears to be a lovely rose garden. I know that it can’t possibly be lovely, but at least it’s not a giant maze filled with death traps. The pack bangs against my back and the hatchet in my belt thumps against my hip. It’ll bruise when it’s hanging there, but at least it’s there. At least I got away from the bloodbath with supplies and a weapon._

_My tennis shoes crunch on the manicured lawns as I slip by the topiaries and head towards the roses. Once I am on the gravel path that winds its way between rosebushes, I wonder why the hell I chose to come here. The maze is probably full of horrors, but at least there’s some cover. Anyone can see me through the bushes here; there is no place to hide._

_And I’m found almost immediately. The District 3 male, who had tried and failed to join the Careers, is upon me. His footsteps are loud, and I can tell he’s gaining on me. I look over my shoulder to see that he’s leaping over a smaller rosebush. Within moments, he will have his sword on my neck. I cannot run away. There is no place to hide. So I do what I know I must._

_I turn around and face him._

_This takes him off guard, and though he swings his sword, I duck it easily enough. My fingers find the hatchet and I pull it out. Shit, am I really going to use this? Am I really going to swing this weapon and kill someone? It’s only the first day! There hasn’t been enough time for the gravity of the situation to force me to murder. And yet, here I am, hatchet in hand. District 3 swings his sword again. I dodge again._

_And I sink the hatchet into his side._

_It’s a terrible hit, but it is a hit nonetheless. The tribute howls with agony. I wrench out the hatchet, and for a moment I consider letting him go. That’s all I wanted was to get away. But then I am overcome by anger at him. He who decided that he was a Career. He who turned against the rest of us non-Careers so quickly. He who offered to share a sandwich with me one day in the training center when they had temporarily run out. I remembered his kindness, and I see that it was nothing but lies. And this time when my hatchet falls, it’s into his neck._

I scream myself awake.

Oh, God, I really did that. I really killed that kid because I was so furious with him for betraying us. As if there had been an “us” out there in the arena. We weren’t in an alliance. There wasn’t Careers vs. non-Careers. It was simply every man for himself, and that’s what that kid had been trying to do. And I killed him because I thought he was a snake-hearted bastard.

I’m crying into my pillowcase. The blankets are damp with my sweat. I don’t care what time it is because regardless of the hour, I’m not going back to sleep. I allow myself to cry out as much as I can before I head to the showers to clean myself up. Then I slip into my clothes for the day and take a deep breath. It’s time to pretend that I had a perfectly restful sleep after reading long hours into the night. Nightmares? No siree. Can’t let the tributes see that winning means night after night of constant horrors.

I glance in the mirror to make sure that I look decent. I do. Maybe I won’t in a few nights, but for the time being, everything is just fine. I pin back my hair with clips and then head out into the hallway.

“Good morning, Juniper,” Rosa says as I sit down at the table.

I force a smile. “Morning, Rosa,” I say. “Morning, Green.”

Green just stares at me carefully. Right, whatever. I don’t have the patience to deal with that.

“Your clothes comfortable?” I ask my tribute. She nods. “Great. You are going to have a lot to do today, but don’t stress too much. See if you can learn some new skills.”

Rosa gives me a thumb’s up.

“And make sure to try to talk with some of the other tributes,” I continue. “Be reserved and respectful. But also remember that you have just as much right to use any of the equipment as the rest of them, so don’t let them boss you around.”

Rosa smiles. It’s not a full smile. She’s straining.

Lala comes in, chirruping about how much they’re going to learn today. “It’s like school, but interactive!” she announces, which gets a look from both tributes.

And a sullen glare from me. I can’t forget what she said last night. No matter how sweetly she talks to them or how many treats she slips onto their plates or how encouraging she is, I can only remember what she said on the telephone. These kids are just another step for her own victory.

I stay at the table with Rosa while Pitch comes in and gives Green a pep talk. He instructs the boy to watch his speech carefully, but again I see that the kid’s not listening. At last Lala leads the tributes to the elevator and towards their training.

I can breathe now. They are heavy breaths, but I can breathe.

“You’re going to have to let it go,” Pitch instructs me.

My eyes flick up towards his. “Let it go?” I demand. He is telling me to ignore what I heard that woman say? My hand slaps against the table. “No, I will _not_ let it go!”

“But you must,” he hisses to me, leaning in across the table.

“Fuck you, I will do whatever I want,” I snap.

Pitch looks like he might just punch me. But he doesn’t. Instead he studies me again for several seconds. I don’t squirm away but instead focus on his eyes carefully. At last he meets my stony gaze and sits back in his seat.

“Everything has consequences,” he says quietly.

“No shit,” I say. “And that applies for escorts, too.”

Pitch shakes his head. “Juniper—”

“I don’t care,” I growl. “She can’t just stand there and say that sort of stuff!”

Now Pitch smacks the table, a sudden gesture that startles me and rattles the dishes. “Yes! Yes, she can!” he says.

“We’re victors! Surely we can—”

“Enough, Juniper!” Pitch says. There’s a dangerous edge in his voice that cuts me off cold. I find that I can no longer hold his gaze and turn away.

When he speaks again, he is calmer, but just barely. “We will always be tributes. Always. It doesn’t matter if we won. She is still in control, and there is nothing we can do about it. . . . Don’t forget that, Juniper.”

It’s the way that he says my name that I know that the conversation is over. Never has Pitch spoken to me like this, even when I was at my wildest in the training center last year. Even when I couldn’t control myself and broke a wide assortment of vases and decorations in this very apartment. But there is a coldness and an anger within his voice now that I have never heard before, and I know that it would be dangerous to tread further on this matter.

I risk a glance up at him and see that he is staring into nothing. He looks . . . vacant.

The anger within me starts to recede. I am starting to feel very worn out.

An avox comes in, scuttling around to clean off the table and remove the place settings where the tributes were sitting. I know that he has heard our entire exchange, and I wonder briefly what he thinks about it. Surely he must have an opinion. But an avox will never question this, will never engage with us. They are not allowed to, even if they had the ability to speak.

“This is our cue to leave,” Pitch says, standing up. He sounds normal again, but I don’t dare say anything. Instead I stand up and follow after him once again.

Why can’t I voice my opinion? I know that I am not as free as some may think—I am still closely monitored by the Capitol, perhaps even moreso than I was as a tribute—but don’t I have some ability to hold people accountable for the shit they do? Still, as the moments pass and my temper cools, I realize that it would be hard to accuse someone of a crime when the society as a whole does not consider the behavior criminal. It’s a moral issue, but one that will never see justice. I simmer as I walk to the elevator with Pitch, but I say nothing more about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper trains up on how to use the mentoring program and then meets the blind victor, Elijah (District 5).

We are back in the monitoring room. Now there are twenty-four of us victors all assembled, casually sitting at our various consoles. There’s not really a whole lot to do right now, though Pitch tells me that they’re going to give us a brief introduction on how to use the equipment which, he adds, is pretty ridiculous since they use the same equipment year after year.

“Not for you, though,” he says. “Since it’s your first year.”

The consoles walk us through the system, each at our own pace. I can see with a glance towards Pitch’s screen that he is slowing down so that he doesn’t get too far ahead of me. Most of the others have already finished since they pretty much skipped through everything.

I have access not only to the stats of my own tribute but also to all of the other tributes. Like with Rosa, I can see the height, weight, and the like, but now that there have been both the reaping and the opening ceremonies, there are numbers for “likelihood of victory” for all of the tributes. I stare at the summary page, looking at the 0% listed for several of the tributes, including both from District 7.

“Don’t worry—that will change,” Pitch says quietly. “Once we have the interviews and training scores, the numbers always change. Mostly for the better.”

After that, the rest of the morning passes by easily. I wonder if it’s because it really is easier, or if I’m starting to get numb and accept this new reality. Still, I stay by Pitch’s side, sneaking away for a drink of water or to use the restroom or whatever I need so that I don’t look like I’m latched to my old mentor. I’m introduced to several other victors, some of which are mentors and some of which have just swung by to say hello to their friends before disappearing off into the Capitol. It seems wild that some of these people actually willingly come to the Capitol when they could just stay home. I think of Vesa and wonder if she’s had her children yet. Right now, she may be nestled into the safety of her mansion, a child curled up in each arm. (I am of the belief that she is having twins. I’ve never seen a woman so distended.)

I catch snippets of conversation, and I remember how Isolde told me that I didn’t listen well enough. It’s true that it’s easier to just tune out rather than to focus on listening to things that you don’t want to hear, but I force myself to listen for Rosa’s sake. Nobody mentions them except to shake their heads and wish Pitch and myself better luck next year. But not all of the news is about District 7.

“Ugh, apparently my tribute—the male—is gluten intolerant,” says Terra from District 12.

Maybe Rosa can slip some bread into his stew?

“District Two hasn’t won in years. I hear that they’ll be setting them up for a victory,” says another mentor.

Okay, so Rosa should be prepared for a rocky arena, or maybe a place that’s in a cave or something?

“No, it’ll surely be something that caters to District 4.”

Does Rosa even know how to swim? If she doesn’t, can we teach her in the bathtub? Is it big enough? Maybe we can get an avox to bring a giant tub.

With all of the discussion, my brain starts to turn to mush as it’s pulled this way and that. I am simultaneously preparing for things that will cater to the Career districts, trying to poison people by bread, and tallying up the different skills and weapons that the other mentors are saying their tributes can use. At last, I can’t take any more of it, so I retreat to the lounge and flop down on one of the couches.

“If you stay in there too long, you start to go insane,” says a voice, and I look up to see that despite the ridiculous number of couches in this one room, I have managed to choose one that had an occupant in the opposite couch.

“Is that why you’re in here?” I ask.

I recognize the victor almost immediately despite the fact that his victory was eight or nine years ago. Who could forget him? His eyes were gouged out during his Hunger Games, and yet he still managed to kill several tributes. It was a complete wretched thing to watch, and yet it’s burned in my mind as one of the very first Hunger Games I could remember watching in entirety. Like everyone else, I’d been watching since I was a small child, but this was one of the defining ones that marked my approach to reaping age.

And now, that victor sits on the couch opposite mine, lounging back comfortably into the soft leather. His cane leans against the couch next to him, seemingly forgotten.

“You’re Elijah,” I say stupidly.

He nods. “And you are Juniper.”

“How did you know that?” I ask. Even stupider. “Sorry.”

He snorts. “Everyone sounds different. Voice, obviously, but also the way you walk.”

“Oh.” Do I walk strangely? Maybe it’s because I feel so heavy that it’s a task to lift my feet up off the ground whenever I move.

“Take a break every now and again. If your tribute dies, she dies,” he says.

Once more, I am startled by the coldness behind these words. I have heard this attitude from pretty much every victor I’ve encountered. I bristle.

“No,” I say.

He laughs, of all things. “Don’t take it too personally. Every victor is like this in the first year or two of mentoring. Then you start to see that it’s true.”

“No,” I repeat. “I won’t.”

“You will,” he says.

“What do you know?” I demand. “How do you even mentor?”

“What, cause I’m blind?” he asks. If he’s offended, it doesn’t show. And I don’t care.

“Yes,” I say.

“You don’t need eyesight to see that your tributes are fucked over,” he replies curtly.

“But they need to have a chance—”

“Is Pitch selling you that bullshit?” he demands, suddenly sitting upright. His vacant eyes—or the glass marbles that are in their place—appear to stare right at me. It’s unnerving, and I shrink back despite myself. “Do yourself a favor and understand that the game is rigged. Your tributes will die. That’s how it is.”

“Are you . . . are you drunk?” I ask suddenly.

He shrugs. “I’m not driving, so it doesn’t matter, does it?” he asks.

Of course I have known that drugs and alcohol ran rampant through the victors, but this just seemed like lunacy. Someone actually trusted him to mentor a tribute? He can’t see, and now he’s messing up his other senses. Rosa won’t be alone in being completely let down by her mentor, but at least I’m doing my damned hardest to try.

“My tribute has decided that I’m worthless, so might as well make the most of my time,” Elijah continues. “Never-you-mind that I was the mentor for a victorious tribute a couple years back, so I’m not _completely_ worthless, am I?”

Yeah, he’d made headlines for that one. Not only was he blind, but he was also pretty young to be a mentor who brought a tribute to victory.

“Right, well, whatever. I don’t need to sit here and listen to a drunkard ramble,” I say, standing up.

“Nah, can’t blame you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper tries to mentor Rosa. Pitch has a late-night appointment to go to. Everybody is moody.

By the time the tributes return to the apartment that night, I’m worn out. Socializing has been exhausting, and then when you couple that with the life-or-death situation on your hands, it’s just soul crushing. I haven’t felt this spent since the Victory Tour six months ago where I had to meet he families of the tributes I’d killed.

Rosa is reserved after she comes back from the shower. I try to get her to talk with me, but she clams up and just stays that training was “fine” and she “learned a lot of new skills today.” I have a feeling that neither is true, but I can’t do anything about a tribute that won’t speak.

Green, on the other hand, is happily telling Pitch about all the people he met, which ones he wants to kill, and how several of them had been interested in an alliance. The kid really gets on my nerves, and I can’t understand how Pitch can cope with him. That man is a saint; that’s the only conclusion I can come to right now. It’s almost relieving that Rosa doesn’t want to talk, though I know that it’s also not a good thing.

“Do you know how to swim, Rosa?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers simply and goes back to her dinner.

“Are you a strong swimmer?”

“I’m okay.”

“What stations did you visit today?”

“Edible plants, rope making, first aid, fire starting.”

“Okay, that sounds like a great start.” Hopefully she can’t hear my voice straining. I can hear it, and it sounds awful. Maybe that’s why she’s so quiet—she knows that her mentor is just winging this. Does she wish that Pitch were her mentor? I glance over at Pitch and Green talking easily between each other. Green lays out exactly what he did at each station, and I’m sure he’s over exaggerating his skills.

“How about allies?” I ask, giving my full attention to Rosa.

She shakes her head. Her eyes start to brim with tears.

“Hey, hey, there’s always tomorrow,” I say to her. “You don’t need to commit yourself to an alliance right away. It’s sometimes better to wait and see how other people react in the training center.”

She nods, but shortly thereafter asks if she can be excused. Of course I let her. Not that I thought that she needed to ask me to begin with. What a contradiction to the little terror I was last year.

Green stays up for another couple of hours before Pitch sends him off to bed, once again saying that its bedtime and all tributes needed to be in their rooms by a certain time. I’d find it funny if I weren’t so desperate for some quiet right now.

Lala insists on staying. She is crocheting something that she says is for the poor children of District 12. In my brief visit to that district, I never once saw a child who would look comfortable in a bright pink and green sweater. Or hat. Or . . . whatever the hell it’s supposed to be. I stare at her while her fingers work quickly. Does she understand how much I despise her?

But I remember my discussion with Pitch, and I say nothing. I don’t even say anything as she babbles to us about the various goings-on with her fellow escorts, or her various comments about other Capitol citizens. Instead I simmer quietly in my chair in the lounge. I used to think her voice was musical and almost pleasant to listen to, but now I can only hate the way she speaks just as I hate the words themselves.

“If you don’t mind, I have to excuse myself,” Pitch says. He doesn’t look at me even when I try to catch his attention. Leaving me here with this nutcase?

Lala seems to think that it’s her cue to leave, too, for which I am grateful. She packs up her crocheting work and bids us goodnight before vanishing in the direction of the elevators. Pitch heads to his room, and within a couple minutes, he’s back, all freshened up.

“Where are you going?” I demand.

“I have an appointment,” he says.

“At this hour?”

“The Capitol doesn’t sleep,” he says somewhat cryptically. I think he’s making light of it, but then again I see that there is a heaviness in his eyes. He shoots me a look, and I don’t press any further. Wherever he is going is private, I guess, and I’m not allowed to know.

I shouldn’t be offended because I know that he is allowed his own personal life and doesn’t have to share everything with me, but I also don’t want to be left out of things, and really Pitch is the only person I can trust here, and now I’m being left to babysit. I watch as he heads to the elevators now. He waits a few seconds for the door to open, and then he is gone.

I am alone.

It’s way too early to go to sleep. If I do, I’ll just wake up at 2:00 AM and have to suffer through the rest of the night hours. So I find my book and curl up on the couch. Maybe Pitch will want to go over the plans for the tributes when he returns. The couch supports my body perfectly, allowing me to nestle in and create a little nook for myself in its great cushions. With a small lamp on over my head, I drift easily into the pages of my novel and disappear from reality.

The elevator door opens, and I snap to attention. Holding my place in the book with my index finger, I crane my neck to see Pitch heading into the apartment. He doesn’t see me from here, and I watch as he pauses and takes a big, deep breath. For a moment, I think he is going to cry, and I become quite self-conscious of the fact that I might witness his breakdown. That’s a private thing that I shouldn’t be part of. I rustle the pages of my book to let him know that I am here, and he looks up at me immediately.

“What’re you doing awake?” he asks.

“Reading,” I say. I wave the book for him to see.

“Ah.”

Silence.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. But it’s not okay, I can tell. Was it a doctor’s appointment? Does he have cancer or something? I’d think that it would be curable with all the Capitol technology and medicine.

Still, I stand up and shuffle out of the living room, passing by him on the way out. To my surprise, I get a sudden whiff of perfume coming from his direction. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he just stares at me with hollow eyes.

“I’m going to sleep,” I say even though it doesn’t need to actually be said.

He nods.

“Do you . . . need anything?” I ask before I leave.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. Get to sleep.”

I hurry off to my room and close the door behind me. Confusion overtakes me, and I sit on the foot of my bed, my finger still stuck in the book’s pages, and stare at the wall blankly as I try to figure out what was going on. It’s nearly 3:00 AM (admittedly I lost track of time while I was reading) and he’s just now returning home. From a bad date? Why the hell didn’t he just tell me he had a date? Well, at least I know that there was nothing romantic in that kiss he gave me last night. I’m relieved at this, not because I don’t like him but because it was all so sudden and confusing.

Still, something doesn’t sit right with me. Instead of sleeping, I spend the next hour finishing up my book. Tomorrow, I will see if we can find a bookstore in the Capitol and pick up some more literature. I’m almost through the small collection I brought with me, and we’re only a couple days into this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper and Pitch get wind of a rumor about them.
> 
> Juniper gets to go to the bookstore.

Pitch doesn’t think that it’ll be a problem if we go to the bookstore today, though I can see that he doesn’t think it to be a priority. He also doesn’t mention anything about last night, and I don’t pry. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

But before we can go shopping, we have to go check in with the other victors. I’m not sure why; we’re not really doing anything of great importance yet. It seems like it’s all about figuring out what other victor allows a tidbit about his or her tribute to slip into conversation. Since I’m horrible at conversing with these people, I rely on Pitch to navigate the waters while I struggle to keep from drowning.

And really, all I’m thinking about is another book. Maybe ten.

We’re all in the lounge area now, with people sprawled about on couches. I look around for the District 5 victor, Elijah, but I see him nowhere. Instead I see that the table has indeed been stocked with food and beverages, and some of those beverages must be alcoholic because I can smell the alcohol every so often when people pass by where I am curled up with my knees to my chest on a couch.

“The problem with being a Career victor is dealing with the Careers,” Isolde is saying. He rolls her eyes. “Please tell me I wasn’t that insufferable.”

Hammer grins and gives her a shrug. “You still are insufferable.”

“Ugh, you’re such a jerk,” she says. But they’re teasing each other, neither meaning the insults. From what I know of Isolde so far, she doesn’t really mean half the things she says. I’m still on edge around her, but I don’t find her quite as intimidating as I did a couple days ago.

“For real, though, Isolde is right,” Hammer says. “The boy from our tribute—oh, man, if he wins, we’ll have to deal with him for all eternity. Maybe being in the arena will knock him down a peg or two. It certainly did for me.”

“I’m just glad District 7 didn’t become a Career district,” Pitch says. I perk up at this. When was District 7 even considering becoming part of their disgusting circle?

“Too many people if that were the case. That would mean that a third of the tributes would be in the Career pack,” says Isolde. “It’s difficult enough managing six, so I can’t imagine how terrible it would be with eight.”

Demeter chimes in, “I heard a rumor that District 7 was seriously considering it. You’re telling me that the rumor was true, Pitch?”

“That I don’t know,” he admits. “Though I heard the same thing for years. Always disgusts me.”

“You know what disgusts me, rumor-wise,” says Butch Granite, victor from District 2. He swings himself up and over the back of the closest couch, flopping down onto the cushions. No one really asks him to follow through on his statement, but we are all watching him with curiosity. He continues anyhow, “There’s a bit of a rumor that a certain District 7 mentor pair is, you know, intimate.”

I flush, my face growing hot. What?!

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Pitch demands. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Butch grins. It’s an evil, lopsided grin. I know that Pitch told me that the Careers weren’t necessarily to be feared, but Butch unnerves me. Perhaps it’s his big, bulky mass, or perhaps it’s the fact that he earned the nickname “The Butcher” for a damned good reason. But right now, I know that neither of those is what is unhinging me. I’m too overwhelmed by the frantic beating of my heart.

“Told you. Disgusting rumor, huh?” he says.

“Yes, and entirely a rumor. Where did you hear that?” Pitch’s voice is sharp.

“Lay off it, Butcher,” says Demeter.

“I’m really just relaying a rumor,” Butch says innocently.

“I-actually, I heard the same thing,” says Isolde quietly. “I thought it was just that somebody had misheard things or, you know, made stuff up. But if it’s going around…”

“Apparently,” said Butch. The grin is on his face. “A tribute witnessed you two the other night.”

“Nothing happened,” Pitch says. He rubs his eyebrows in frustration. “One of our damned tributes doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut, and apparently isn’t very good at spying, either.”

Ugh, I really do feel sick. My neck starts to feel warm, and there’s saliva in the back of my throat. But I feel that if I left right now, I’d only be incriminating myself, and Pitch, too. So I shrink back into the cushions and wait for this all to be over.

I think about the kiss and how comforting it was. And now it’s like all that comfort has been wrenched from my body.

“So what happened?” Demeter asks gently.

“Juniper and I were in the hall. I . . . hugged her and said goodnight. Never thought that brat would be lurking around watching us. Damn.”

I really do feel ill now. What am I supposed to do? It’s not that I have anything against Pitch, but the fact that the gesture had been so misconstrued and now might . . . might what? Get us in trouble? Would that get us in trouble? I fight the nausea away and try to get ahold of myself. Even if we don’t face any sort of reprimanding for the behavior, I still want to strangle Green and toss him off the roof. How dare he use our own private moments and feelings against us!

“I want to go to the bookstore now,” I manage to whisper.

“Alright,” says Pitch.

“Do you want me to go?” Demeter asks.

Pitch shakes his head. “No. What’s done is done. No use hiding from it.”

I am shaking when I leave the lounge with Pitch, and I can’t stop even minutes later. Pitch reaches out to me, but I shrink away. He tries to talk with me, but I can’t bear the thought that any little thing we say or do will be broadcasted to all of Panem. And from our own tribute, of all people!

And it has. At least, that’s what Pitch tells me. He waits until we’re on the city streets where listening in on conversations would be more challenging.

“This will likely affect us outside of the training center,” he says to me. He somehow is handling this very well. “If it got out to the victors, it was probably mentioned in front of the escorts, maybe stylists or prep teams. Whatever. So we can assume that everyone in the Capitol will know it, though the extent is currently uncertain.”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

I am too busy watching the ground beneath me and counting my footsteps between cracks in the concrete walkway to look around and see the reactions of passers-by. Do they already know? Are they watching us from the inside of shops, trying to figure out if the rumors are real?

“We just . . . continue on as always,” he says. “Don’t give them any more to go off of, but don’t try to avoid each other. Make no move until we know what the rumor actually entails.”

Right. So this means that at some point I’m supposed to stick close to Pitch, as the other victors told me, and also stay away from him because I don’t want to prove the rumors right.

“Yeah, okay,” I manage.

“Well, I can certainly say that this is a first,” he says with a bit of a laugh. “Never have I been accused of being intimate with another victor.”

Really? I find that surprising for some reason. Maybe because he hasn’t quite yet hit middle age and is still in the physical prime of his life, or maybe because the victors seem so chummy with each other that I would have thought that he’d hit it off with at least one of them.

“Hopefully not a tribute,” I find myself saying. Although the words escape before I stop them, I’m glad I ask because it occurs to me that I wouldn’t be able to stomach being around him if he had a reputation of sleeping with tributes.

Pitch’s lip twitches. “Absolutely not,” he says. “You just don’t do that. Have relationships with other victors, with Capitolites, with Peacekeepers, whatever. But never a tribute. It’s . . . not illegal as long as the tribute isn’t a minor, but it’s taboo. Definitely not a place most victors want to tread.”

He seems to drift off after that, and I don’t say anymore. His life is his life, and I don’t mean to pry more than I did.

The Capitol’s streets are brightly decorated. Banners wave from windows and large signs glow above shops. One could window shop here for days and days and always find something new to look at, from hats and jewelry to pets to knickknacks and useless contraptions. We pass by flower stores and electronic shops, body modification parlors and aromatherapy centers. Shining windows reflect my face staring wide-eyed at the displays. Part of me wants to hate the Capitol and everything that is within it, but I find that I’m so mesmerized by everything that I can’t control my awe. A few shopkeepers beam back at me, while others come and open up the doors to welcome me inside.

“It’s best that you just keep focused right ahead of you,” says Pitch as he pulls me away from our third encounter with an eager shopkeeper.

“Did she really want my autograph?” I ask, gawking at the door for a local brewery where the shopkeeper was waving goodbye.

“Yes, she did. And you don’t have to give out autographs, at least not all the time,” Pitch says. “They’ll have special signings that you’ll have to go to—especially when you need to hype up your ‘talent’—but other than that, it’s best to just keep moving and not get sidetracked by every person who shows interest in you.”

Right, okay. I try not to think about my so-called talent. I had wanted to play the timpani because smacking giant drums with mallets sounded like a great thing at the time, but Pitch told me I had to come up with something more reasonable. Anyway, now I’m chainsaw carving a bunch of logs. It would be great if they actually let me use the chainsaw, but there’s something about me being too “unpredictable” that prohibits anyone from giving me such an object.

There’s no more time for lectures because we are at the bookstore. Without waiting for Pitch’s permission, I bound through the doors and let them swing shut behind me. The aroma of freshly bound books greets me, and I feel at home for the first time since arriving at the Capitol.

It’s easy enough to ignore the curious glances of various Capitolites as I dive into the rows of literature. I find all sorts of authors I’ve never even heard of, as well as some of my favorites. The books weigh down my arms and dig into my skin, but it’s a small price to pay for the wonders of reading. I choose novels of all sorts of genres—like a child eagerly sampling ice cream, I want to try one of everything—and then I begin to make a stack on an empty table with various non-fiction books. There are so many topics! I could learn about everything! Sometimes I take a book and flip through it, soaking in the familiar scents. Hell, I even throw in some books about the Hunger Games in case there is anything I can glean in there that will help my tributes.

Pitch finds me rifling through a bin of bargain paperbacks.

“Juniper? I think it’s time to leave,” he says.

I peek up from my search. “Oh? I lost track of time,” I say sheepishly, releasing my grip of the book I am holding. He’s right. Although I don’t know the exact time, I’m pretty sure that significant time has passed. For a few glorious minutes (hours?) I had forgotten all about the world around me.

Through the rows of books we go, back towards the table that holds my sizeable hoard. The funny thing about book shopping is that it’s so easy to pick up the books that you lose track of how many you have. And now the number of books I have is rather ridiculous.

“I should put some back,” I mumble. But there are none I see that I feel like I can part with right now. Still, I move over to begin the culling.

“No, no, you can get them all,” Pitch says. I’m ecstatic. But then I realize that his hand is on my shoulder again, and he is guiding me towards the nearest register. I spare a glance at him to roll my eyes, but then I realize that he’s not looking at me; his eyes are darting around as though he’s watching out for something.

“Pitch, what’s—“

“We are getting those books over there. To be delivered to Apartment 7 in the training center,” he says to the cashier, ignoring me.

“Sure thing, hon. Whose account do I put it on?” the cashier asks. She has weirdly long eyelashes that flutter like wings of a moth when she blinks. She smiles at Pitch, then me.

“Mine,” I say quickly.

“Great. An avox will deliver them this afternoon,” the cashier says cheerfully.

“Thank you,” I say, but my attention is no longer on the lady. I am looking around for whoever Pitch is so anxious about, but I can’t pick anyone out of the crowd. There are more people here than I thought there would be (Capitolites don’t seem to be bookish people to me, but I guess I am proven wrong), and none of them stands out as even mildly suspicious. Sure, there are people watching us, but I’m starting to understand that it’s nothing out of the ordinary to ogle a victor in passing.

Once more, Pitch guides me out. I start to protest because I feel naked leaving the store without even one book in my hand, but the pace at which he moves us is much more rapid than usual. His jaw is set, and he is silent as we step outside in the sunlight. I blink, but it doesn’t throw him off at all, and he is half-dragging me down the street back in the direction of the training center.

“What the hell?” I demand as I jerk my arm away from him.

“There was someone in the store that I wanted to avoid,” he says, as though that explains it.

Although I keep walking, I stare hard at him. “Really? All that for one person?”

“One person who I’d rather not run into,” he says.

No, that doesn’t give me enough to go on.

I turn and glance over my shoulder. Although the bookstore is two blocks away, I can see the figure of a man standing outside the door. He’s watching us. I know it even though I cannot see his expression. In one hand, he holds a book. In the other, he is sipping a beverage of some sort. And it’s several long seconds before he turns away and heads the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that I might have been living vicariously through Juniper during her book-buying spree.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosa reveals what's been troubling her, and Juniper and Pitch try to figure out how to deal with it.

It’s evening again, and our tributes return to the apartments. My large pile of books had been delivered while Pitch and I were with the other mentors (and I quietly mourned the fact that I couldn’t just disappear into a book because I had left the shop with nothing tangible), and I moved them into my bedroom before the tributes could see them. It’s weird, but I feel like I am part of two worlds—one in which it is life or death, and the other in which casual reading is acceptable. I can’t reconcile the two, so I merely slip between them, hoping that I never make a false step.

Rosa won’t talk with me when she arrives. Green is chattering up a storm, but Rosa disappears into her room. It takes an hour before she emerges smelling like pine and summer breeze, her hair still damp. However, she still refuses to make eye contact with me as she heads towards the dinner table.

Enough is enough.

I pull her to the side, dragging her away from the main area and towards a small corner where we can have some peace away from the others.

“You need to tell me what’s wrong,” I say with as much gentleness as I can muster.

Rosa stares hard at the floor and I think she plans on upholding her silence. Then she speaks, “Remember the other day when we were discussing strengths and I said that one of my strengths is chemicals?”

I wait for the blow. “Yeah?”

“Well . . . Green went and told everyone! Now everyone knows that it’s my strength!” There are tears in her eyes, and at any moment those tears may topple over her lids and run down her cheeks. She is distraught, barely holding it together.

A flicker of anger goes through me. Green is nothing but a piece of garbage. The little shit has spread other people’s information around where it’s not supposed to be. I feel heat in my face, and I force myself to unclench my jaw.

“Sometimes it’s good to know who we can trust with our information and who we can’t,” I say carefully to Rosa. “Let’s not tell Green any more personal facts, okay? We’ll work something out. Any news from training?”

Rosa shrugs. “I tried to use a bow, but it was too big and I was terrible at it,” she admits. Her shoulders slump. “And then some of them laughed when I tried to climb a rope and fell.”

Ugh. Bastards. I am angry for Rosa, for the position she was put in by being reaped, for the shitty district partner she has to work with, for the wretched tributes who poke at her weaknesses. I curse under my breath, and then have to clarify to the girl that I’m not angry at her, or humiliated by her performance.

“Remember how you told me you can use pruning shears?” I ask her. She nods. “That will be your weapon. Do you think if someone came at you, you could close the shears and jab it at them?”

She thinks carefully about it for a moment. “My brother and I used to sword fight with them when we were younger, but we got in trouble and had to stop.”

“Great. Now tomorrow when you go in, take a look at the weapons and see which ones remind you of the pruning shears. Try them out. Don’t get carried away, but see how they feel in your hand, and which ones are most like the shears you’re comfortable with.”

Rosa is nodding eagerly now, drinking up my sagely advice. I’m just pulling it out of my ass, but she doesn’t need to know that. I see what Pitch was talking about when he said that we were their last hope. She is so eager to comply that her tears are gone and she starts adding her own ideas to my instructions. I am almost swept up in her enthusiasm, but I force myself to remain grounded.

I dismiss Rosa and we both head to the table for dinner. The others are already eating, and Green is in the middle of telling a story about a fight he witnessed. I tune him out as I pick at my meal.

That evening, I pull Pitch aside after the tributes have been sent to bed and Lala has disappeared. We sit on the couch. My back presses against the armrest, and my legs are drawn against my chest. I lean my head against the back rest of the couch.

“Rosa told me that Green told the other kids that she was skilled in chemicals,” I say to him.

Pitch winces. “I’m assuming this is without her permission?”

“Yeah, she was pretty torn up about it. Was trying to keep it secret from the others,” I say.

“You don’t think that she made that up, do you?” he asks.

That didn’t even occur to me. Still, I shake my head. “Not after what happened earlier today. The rumor he passed on about us.”

Pitch rubs his cheek. He hasn’t shaved since we arrived, and pretty soon he’ll be growing a thick beard. Right now, it’s all just pronounced stubble. He’s silent for a few moments.

“Juniper . . . Oh, God forgive me for what I’m about to say . . .” He’s struggling. My heart thumps as I wait for him to continue. “I think we should focus on Rosa.”

I open my mouth to speak—to protest, or question, or really just clarify what he means. But he silences me by holding up his index finger.

“Green has no ability to restrain himself, and the shit he says is downright questionable,” he says. “He’s constantly bragging about things and showing off and . . . well, sometimes tributes do it because they’re scared, but at this point, I don’t think he understands the situation at all.”

Oh, God, this is so wrong.

“So, you want to . . . just ignore him?” I ask quietly.

“No, I’ll still work with him as best as I can, but. . . .”

“He’s a child, Pitch,” I stammer out. “You can’t just leave him.”

He shakes his head. “I understand that. As I said, I’ll do what I can to help him. But I want to help you with Rosa to make sure that she has the best chance she can have, and if that means that I have to cut out some time with Green, then so be it.”

“And that means he’ll die,” I say.

“And it means that Rosa will have a better chance at living.”

I wrap my arms around my chest, pressing back into the armrest so that I am as far away from Pitch as I can be. Disgust wells up within me. Pitch is just as bad as the rest of them! Is that what being in the Capitol does to people? Sure, I detest Green. I find him loud and obnoxious and self-centered. But I don’t want him to get screwed over like this. I don’t want him _abandoned_ by his own mentor!

“Juniper, please—“

“No.” It’s a harsh whisper. A grainy, gritty noise that comes from within.

I stand up suddenly. And I grab the nearest pillow and pitch it across the room, knocking a picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, shattered glass scattered in all directions. Still my anger isn’t tempered, and I have to fight to control myself.

Turning on Pitch, I begin to swear at him. I begin to rant. I begin to call him all sorts of filthy names as I accuse him of abandoning Green. The anger is steaming out of me. It’s palpable. And I can’t stop the vitriol that comes from my mouth. Pitch sits there, watching me. It’s not the sort of watching he does when he’s trying to judge somebody’s current state. I’m not sure what his expression means, and I don’t care because I am so blind with anger and hatred that I cannot afford to take his wellbeing into consideration. Not when he has abandoned his tribute.

“Did you do this to me, too?” I demand of him. “Did you abandon me and decide that Lief was the better candidate for you to focus on?”

Pitch doesn’t answer. He lets me rant on without interrupting.

“I can’t believe you would abandon a twelve-year-old child to be murdered by a pack of bloodthirsty savages. Even if he is a detestable little cretin! You tell me about being their last hope, and yet here you are willing to drop the kid because he’s an annoying little twerp. You do that to all the kids you think are annoying?! You’re such a hypocritical asshole. Bastard!”

At last, I run out of steam and flop down on the floor, half still simmering and half embarrassed about the things that came out of my mouth. Not that I would admit it. Instead I lay on the carpet and try to pretend that I’m somewhere else—anywhere else. But I can’t because the object of my anger is in this very room, and the more the seconds pass, the more I realize that I’m not really angry at Pitch. Still, I have nowhere else to direct this rage, and I don’t even mutter an apology.

Pitch stands up, and I crane my neck to see him head towards the elevators. Is he really running away? What the hell?

“Where are you going?” I demand.

“Meeting up with someone,” he replies as he pushes the call button. The elevator dings almost automatically.

“What the hell, Pitch?” I am on my feet, but I hold my ground. I feel the anger rising again. “For real?”

He doesn’t respond, and the next thing I know, he’s gone, leaving myself and all of my raging anger issues alone within the sitting room of our apartment.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares.

_There are edible plants in the garden, and I recognize some of them. These are my lifeline, and I am happy to harvest them and save as many of them for later. I eat well for the first couple days of the Hunger Games because I am confident my knowledge of edible plants, though I yearn for something with more substance. There’s only so many vegetable stews and herbal teas one can have before you’re forcing yourself to eat._

_But then I find them ransacking the vegetable garden. It’s MY garden. I have carefully tended to it and kept the animals away. I know that sounds stupid, but it kind of gives me purpose in the arena. I don’t mind if other people come and take what they need—I always slip away off to the side, or sometimes I go and explore other areas of the arena—but now there are tributes outright desecrating my lifeline. They laugh as they hack through cabbages and pull carrots from the ground._

_“I like to imagine that these lettuces are heads of the other tributes,” says the District Four girl as she clobbers a head of lettuce with her mace. Bits of lettuce stick to the spikes that jut from the terrible weapon. She plucks off a leaf and pops it in her mouth with a smile._

_Disgusting._

_Still, I lay in wait underneath the hedge, biding time until they leave. It’s just a couple of people, but they’re Careers, and I’d rather be on my own anyhow._

_When they leave, it takes quite some time before I allow myself to come out and see what bits and pieces I can salvage. A smashed lettuce here, a sliced potato there. I pack up what I can into my bag and am about to leave when I hear the laughter of the District Four girl._

_“Oh, here I returned for my sweater—I left it behind on accident—and I see a little rabbit in the garden,” she says._

_I turn around. Sure enough there is the District Four girl, her sweater draped over one arm and the mace in the other._

_“It gets chilly in the arena at night,” she says unnecessarily. But she is walking towards me, and I know that she is distracting me. She sees me as, well, a rabbit—a helpless little creature that she could kill with the flick of her wrist. She’s wrong._

_My hand tightens on my hatchet._

_It’s a nasty weapon she’s holding. To be hit with that thing would certainly mean death, and not necessarily a swift one. I can imagine that it would pulverize bone and mash organs, and the victim would be left to bleed out from internal wounds, if not from the external ones. And yet this girl wields it like it’s a croquet mallet—casual, elegant, simple. Clearly it’s a weapon she knows well._

_“Don’t worry. This won’t hurt,” she says._

_“I know,” I say. Because then I am leaping at her with my hatchet out, and she barely has time to swing around that big weapon before the blade of my own is in her chest. Her hands fumble to lift her mace, but the strength is going out of her. I pull out the hatchet, and once more I bury it into her chest. Blood splatters out, and bones crunch. It’s a sickening sound, and yet it doesn’t make me stop. Only when the cannon booms do I stagger away from her. The handle of the hatchet is slick with blood, and I have to wipe my hands on the ground so that I can hold it again._

_There isn’t much time before the others will be here. They’ll know that their ally had come back this direction, and they will eventually look for her when she doesn’t return. They’ll think that the cannon was for another tribute—was for me—but sooner or later they’ll find out the truth, and I need to be long gone._

_“You’re right,” I say as I bend down and grab the sweater that lays beside her body. “It does get chilly at night.”_

I wake up trembling. Tears run down my cheeks, and I scrub furiously at them. It takes several seconds before I realize that I was dreaming and that I am perfectly safe. But then I realize that though I am out of the arena and what I just experienced was nothing more than a nightmare, I am not in the bedroom of the District 7 apartment. Fear thumps within me, and I begin to whimper.

Pitch kneels down before me. “Hey. Juniper, it’s alright,” he says. He reaches out to comfort me, but I recoil. I can’t remember why initially—is it the lingering sensation of the dream?—and then the events of earlier in the evening come back to me.

“C’mon,” he says, gently coaxing me from behind a large potted plant in the corner of the sitting area. What am I doing here? “You must’ve walked in your sleep.”

His voice is so gentle, and I can’t help but think about how I treated him earlier. Still, my brain is hazy, and I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m not out of the arena, that I am still within that garden.

“No,” I say quietly. If I leave this hiding spot, someone might see me, and then they’ll kill me. I know it’s irrational, but I have the sensation of being naked and exposed if I move away from the artificial fronds.

Pitch reaches out a hand and guides me out from behind the pot. We’re crouching on the carpet. I reach down and place a hand against the rug, my fingers almost entirely vanishing into its depth. It’s soft and comforting. Reminds me that I am not in the arena and that I am within the safety of the apartment.

“You’re okay, Juniper,” Pitch says. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I . . . I swear I went to sleep in my bed and not behind a plant,” I say, wiping tears from my cheeks.

“I know,” he replies. I start to stand up, but he nudges me to keep me in place. “Stay here for a minute until you’re sure you know where you are.”

“Does it ever get better?” I ask him.

“In some ways,” he says.

“And in others?”

“In others, it does not,” he admits heavily.

“Is it wrong if I wish I never left the arena alive?”

“No. No, it is not,” Pitch says. He meets my eyes. When I try to look away, he cups my chin in his hand. “But you did leave there alive. Some things get better and some things don’t, and that’s the same in life whether you’re a victor or not. But we keep going, okay? We can’t give up.”

I nod. “Yeah, okay.” I don’t feel okay about anything here, except for the fact that Pitch is with me. That _somebody_ understands what I’m going through. Nobody at home ever did. My classmates and friends treat me as either some other entity to be greatly respected or a madwoman who ought to be feared. My parents handle me with careful gloves as though I might break at any moment. Everyone’s view towards me has changed, and nobody is willing to try to understand how I have struggled ever since I stepped foot in the arena.

And that’s why, although I may hate Pitch’s decision to abandon Green, I know that I cannot shun him entirely.

Pitch pulls me into a hug, and I bury myself in his embrace. The faint scent of perfume lulls me into calm. We stay like this for several minutes, until I find that I can’t breathe and at last pull myself away. I don’t care if Green has seen this; I don’t care if he tells the world. If being hugged and comforted—feeling a brief calm that I can never capture on my own—comes with sticky rumors, then so be it. I say goodnight to Pitch and head back to my room where I drift off to a dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juniper and Pitch go to the park to plot where they discuss their tributes, Capitol life, and the unfortunate downsides to being a victor.

After the tributes head out for their third day of training, Pitch takes me to a park in the Capitol to talk strategy. The park, he says, is open enough that there aren’t many places for people hide and watch us.

We could walk to the park, but it would take a considerable amount of time, so Pitch leads me on an impromptu session of how to navigate the public transit in the Capitol. One train ride later, we are at a massive park—the biggest I’ve ever seen. District 7 has many nature walks, sprawling fields, and, of course, vast forests. But we don’t have anything like this. The park is pristine lawn stretching for the equivalent of many, many city blocks. There are areas that have trees, bubbling streams, and (I try not to look) gardens, but Pitch leads me as far into the lawn as we can get before we’d come out the other side. It’s like being on a giant soccer field, grass stretching off into the distance.

Pitch unceremoniously flops down onto the grass. I set down my bag, sit cross-legged near him and lean back, my hands propping me up in a comfortable rest. We’re exposed out here without any sort of cover of trees or bushes. To someone who survived the Hunger Games, it’s alarming to not have a place to hide, and I feel ill at ease despite the pleasantness of the day.

“So this is where you come to plot?” I ask. I squint in the bright sun and watch a family with several little kids play tag. They’re far enough away that they aren’t in earshot; to them, we are just out for a pleasant stroll through the park.

“Yep,” he says. “There are always people willing to listen in on conversations—especially conversations of victors, so going out where you can see all around you is the best way to do it.”

Of course there is never any way to guarantee that they’re not listening to us. In the Hunger Games, they have cameras that blend into their natural surroundings so seamlessly that the tributes couldn’t find them even if they tried. There’s no guarantee that the cameras aren’t picking us up right now.

“What’s the plan for the tributes?” I ask.

“What I said yesterday about Green—I know you don’t want to hear it, but sometimes as a mentor, you need to make those decisions,” he says, ignoring my question.

I bristle at his words. My natural reaction is to bite back with something sharp and painful to offset the terrible message he gave me, but I withhold only because I remember how he comforted me last night even after I was such as asshole to him earlier in the evening. So instead I say nothing.

He continues, “When you have a tribute who doesn’t want your help, it makes all of this so much more challenging. And it takes its toll. On you, on your relationship with the tribute, on your ability to work with the other tribute from your district. When you’re a mentor for many years, you come up with . . . strategies to help you get through it. And when you have a tribute who actively sabotages other people—whether he knows what he’s doing or not—you need to recognize that not every tribute can be saved. It’s cruel—I’m sorry, I know that it is. There’s nothing fair or kind about the Hunger Games, and the sooner you as a mentor recognize this, the better you will be able to perform your duties.”

It takes several minutes for me to fully digest what he has told me. I know that it makes sense, but it sounds heartless.

“You told me that we’re they’re last hope,” I say.

“And we are,” Pitch says with a heavy sigh. “That’s the problem. If there was someone else who could step in and help give the tribute a chance, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But there has to be some teamwork between mentor and tribute for this to work. It’s like . . . I’m sure you’ve had those projects in school where people don’t pull their weight?”

“Ugh, yes.”

“Think of it that way. Green isn’t pulling his weight.”

“But if I leave somebody’s name off a project because they didn’t do their work, it’s not going to kill them literally.”

“True. But the stakes are higher here. Nothing comes for free.”

“Is this how you protect yourself?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You told me—a couple days ago on the train—that I would need to take care of myself.”

“Yes, this is what I mean,” he says. “Partly, at least. You can’t become too emotionally involved in any tribute. You’ll find that some years, the tributes are completely insufferable—before you ask, no, that wasn’t you—and you have to let them go entirely. I’ll still give Green a chance. He’s obnoxious and immature, but he’s not a bad kid. We will just put more energy into Rosa.”

The family is still playing in the park. They have a kite now, and it’s flying so high that I can barely see it sometimes when it swoops closer to the sun. A light breeze occasionally carries the laughter of the children towards us. Everyone in District 7—probably all of the districts—will be so preoccupied with the Hunger Games that playing would seem impossible. All but the youngest children will be glued to their television sets and radios, waiting for news about their district’s tributes. And here in the Capitol is an entire family that is able to escape that pain—mom, dad, and four children—by spending a lovely morning together at the park.

“I don’t even know what to do with Rosa,” I admit. I sit up and wrap my arms around myself to keep the anxiety at bay. “She is so little. No weapons skills—except pruning shears that were used for gardening—and really no survival skills.”

“That happens more frequently than I think you realize,” Pitch says. He turns and looks at me. The light catches his grey-blue eyes, and I can see little flecks of brown. “Most kids don’t have any skills. And the ones that have the fewest skills tend to—but not always—get killed in the bloodbath so the viewers at home don’t really realize this. You were one of the few ones, like myself, and Elm, who knew how to handle a weapon.”

“It was harder than I thought. Using a hatchet as a weapon. Only used it on trees.”

“And that’s what Rosa will need to face when she’s in the arena. Hypothetically, if there were pruning shears, she would need to be able to use them as a weapon against living people.”

Of course it wasn’t physically hard. And in the moment, it wasn’t even emotionally hard. Whenever I thought about it before going into the arena, I never thought I’d be able to do it, though I figured that if it came down to it, I’d get so desperate after days in the arena that I’d eventually swing my weapon. Instead I found myself whipping it out the very first day. And I found that it was surprisingly easy—until I realized what I had done. It was in the aftermath that I had to suffer the consequences of my actions, and telling myself that I had to do what I did to survive didn’t make it any easier. I’d killed in anger, and then I’d be physically sick for hours or even days. The thought of Rosa having to deal with that was gut-wrenching.

“Is there a way we can find out how things are going in the training center?” I ask. “She won’t tell me much about what she’s doing. I think she’s embarrassed or upset.”

“No. Which is actually a good thing because then everyone would be able to know everything,” Pitch answers. “If she doesn’t tell you, she doesn’t tell you. Again, nothing you can do about that. But I think she’ll talk with you more if she knows she can trust you.”

“I never know what to say to her.”

“You’re doing okay,” Pitch says. “Even with experience knowing what to say is challenging.”

“I didn’t even tell her about the private training sessions,” I admit.

“Don’t worry—I mentioned it to both of them earlier.”

Great. While I’m happy that he did, it’s frustrating that he had to pick up my slack. I run my hand across the soft grass before plucking off a blade.

“How is your reading going?” he asks suddenly.

I pause, turn to my bag, and pull out a couple of books. One of them is the latest novel I started this morning, and the other is about the Hunger Games. I know he doesn’t care a bit about the novel, so I hand him the latter. He takes it and turns it over, then flips through the pages.

“It’s pretty much garbage,” I say.

“You mean that you don’t need to know the exact contents of Trillian McMyer’s breakfast from the 102nd Hunger Games?” he asks with a laugh.

“I don’t even know who that is.”

He tosses the book back towards my bag. “I think he was an escort. Not sure. Definitely before my time. But, what I _can_ tell you, is that some of these books offer insight into how the Capitol thinks about things and what aspects of the Hunger Games they find the most worthwhile.”

“In other words, how to keep them entertained.”

“Precisely. You can have a tribute who is flawless in the arena in terms of survival skills and weaponry, but if there is nothing for show, no one cares. Then your tribute gets killed.”

“Wow, I must’ve been _super_ exciting. I guess everyone is really into knowing how to tend a vegetable garden,” I mutter.

This earns a hearty laugh from Pitch. “Yeah, _that’s_ why they were interested in you.”

This is the first time since we left Victor Village that he’s actually laughed. Genuinely. He’s found other things amusing, but this was a good laugh from deep within. I’d be offended if I didn’t know the truth. People thought I was exciting because I was seemingly uncontrollable. Completely off-the-charts non-Career nutso. Not so uncontrollable or insane that they couldn’t let me be a victor—that had happened a few times in the Hunger Games history—but enough that it gave me a bit of an edge. Tending the garden was probably the most bizarre thing I’d done in the arena because it was so mundane.

“You’re a jerk, Pitch.”

“You earned it,” he says, wiping a tear from his eyes.

I give him a minute to calm down. The family across the lawn has left, but there are more people meandering around in the distance. A few are having picnics. Some are playing games of some sort. A group of children is jumping rope. It all looks so . . . normal. I never expected the Capitol to look like this, and it disturbs me. They aren’t a bunch of blood-thirsty psychos all the time, it seems. They have lives and families and jobs. It would be better if they spent all their free time scheming up ways to kill the district children, I think; at least that would be more consistent with my view of them. Instead I am face-to-face with the reality that they must have some of the same values we have in the districts—family, friends, exercise, fun—and that’s hard to digest. It’s easier to think of them as an “other” species, so foreign and disgusting that I can’t relate. Instead I’m left wishing that I could spend time with my family and friends like they are.

“Don’t worry; they won’t bother us,” says Pitch.

“That’s not what concerns me,” I say, but I can’t really vocalize my thoughts with any level of coherence.

“The fact that they are out here enjoying themselves while the rest of us are suffering?” he suggests.

“How did you know?” I ask dryly.

He picks up a blade of grass and chews on it slowly. “It’s a talent.”

“I always imagined they’d be . . .”

“Not so normal?”

“Yeah. I mean, they don’t _look_ normal. And they certainly don’t act normal around us. But here they are just doing things that we’d do at home if we had the free time.”

“It can be a lot to take in.”

I pause a moment, then I take a chance: “Are you dating one of them?”

Pitch starts. He stops chewing the blade of grass and flicks it away. It’s a casual gesture, but his hand is trembling.

I want to say that I’m sorry I asked, but I’m genuinely curious and would like to know the truth.

“What makes you say that?” he asks cautiously.

I raise an eyebrow. “Perhaps the fact that you keep disappearing at night and returning smelling like perfume.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Pitch! Really? I’m not a child. Just tell me yes or no.”

“Would you think less of me if I said yes?”

“No,” I lie.

He snorts. “Right. Yes, I am. But it’s . . . well, as I said, it’s complicated.”

I stare hard at him. Yeah, it’s probably pretty damn “complicated” if he’s coming home each night looking completely exhausted and wrecked. But that’s not what I want to hear. I want to know why he’s being so secretive about it, and I don’t want it being glossed over with “it’s complicated.” I think I’m mature enough to know if he is in a relationship. I don’t need to know the details, but I don’t want to be pushed aside, either.

“Alright.” He studies me for a second. I keep my face as stony as I can. At last he seems to accept that I’m not going to give in, and he shakes his head. “Fuck me, I just get to lay these truths on you one after the other, don’t I?”

“Go on,” I prod.

He rubs his chin as he thinks. “Sometimes certain Capitol citizens would like the company of victors. And in return, there are benefits for the victors.”

“So . . . you’re a prostitute?” I’m a bit disgusted.

“It’s not entirely . . . consensual.”

I feel my insides growing cold again despite the warmth of the overhead sun beating down. My stomach clenches as it freezes through, and the frost keeps moving through my organs into my chest.

“What benefits?”

“Depends. Sponsorships for tributes. Maybe, depending on the Capitolite’s position, a tribute can escape a sneaky situation. Other times there doesn’t . . . appear to be a benefit.”

I force myself to keep asking because now I know that I need to know. “What happens if you say no?”

“You don’t,” he says. “You learn quickly that saying no means that . . . Well, there are some victors whose family members end up with mysterious illnesses or in car wrecks. No one can directly say that it’s not mere correlation, but the message is clear enough.”

Now my throat is frozen. Before the cold reaches my mouth, I manage one final question: “Does this happen to all victors?”

He shakes his head. “No. Only the ones deemed desirable. Not just for looks, but sometimes for other reasons, too. Control, mostly.”

And now my mouth is frozen shut.

This news is completely devastating. It seems wildly preposterous, even too crazy for the likes of the Capitol. And yet I remember how wrecked Pitch was when he returned back to the apartment the last two nights. The hollowness in his eyes. I turn and look back at the people in the park. They’re too far away to really identify them more than vague figures with brightly-colored outfits, and yet I still find myself searching through them as though I could find the culprit.

Pieces start to fall together.

“The other day when I went out to lunch without you, the others told me that I need to stick by you. They wanted to verify that I hadn’t talked with anyone besides the other victors…”

“We look out for each other,” says Pitch. “Most of us do, at least.”

I was so angry at them because I thought they were babying me, and yet they were really trying to protect me.

“And when we went to the bookstore?”

“A ‘patron’ with whom I’d rather not interact again.”

“Why did no one tell me this?” I demand.

“I’m telling you now.”

“Before. Like months ago, maybe. This is pretty big information—critical to being here in the Capitol.”

“You weren’t supposed to be coming to the Capitol this time,” Pitch says. “Besides, no one really talks about it. We all just _know_. It’s just not something that comes up in conversation.”

“Right, so I was just supposed to find out on my own?”

Pitch shifts uncomfortably. “I was hoping you would never need to find out. Though I suppose that was pretty foolish. Even if you never got involved, there would be many other victors you’d know who are.”

I take a deep breath. This is surreal. You’re reaped without your consent, they bathe and groom and dress you without your consent, and they force you to kill and be killed without your consent. Why does it come as a surprise that they also make you have sexual relationships without consent? I think of the Capitol citizens enjoying the park today. They’re well aware of all of the things that go on related to the Hunger Games. Are they aware of this aspect, too? All those people enjoying their lives while knowing that they are supporting the torture and murder of others?

I shake with the cold that has come over me.

“Juniper, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up, I can handle it,” I snap. He doesn’t need to protect me from everything. “I’m just cold. That’s all.”

Uh huh. Shitty excuse considering how warm it is out right now, especially in the direct sunlight. I know it’s a crappy reply, and Pitch does, too. He stands up and extends out a hand.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here before I burn,” he says.

I grab my book, shove it in my bag, and then let him help me to my feet. We walk silently back towards the train stop, our pace painfully slow. My legs feel like blocks of ice, and each step is challenging. How could it be that while in the arena I was terrified out of my mind and was still able to move like I was on fire, but here when I am safe—at least, safe from death—I can barely move my body? I don’t want to go back to the training center, but I know that I don’t have a choice. This afternoon, Rosa will have her private training session and I want to be there when she gets her score.

The train ride is in silence. I can feel the prying eyes of Capitol citizens, but I do what Pitch told me to do yesterday and keep my head up and my eyes focused forward. It’s easier to do now that I know the depths to which their wretchedness reach, and it will keep them from seeing the anger seething in my frozen gaze. Pitch keeps me moving once we get off the train and doesn’t allow me to stall for too long on our way back to the training center.

When we’re there, he says to me, “Time to focus on our current task.” As though that’s enough to wipe away everything that he has told me.


	14. Chapter 14

Rosa arrives back to the apartment in the best spirits I’ve seen all week. She runs into her room and returns cleaned up minutes later—no longer preoccupied with long showers to avoid confrontation—and then she’s bounding over to me to update me on her training.

“I can’t believe it!” she hisses to me. We’re in a separate room while Pitch distracts Green so that the little twerp won’t overhear Rosa and my conversation. Rosa’s eyes glow with delight. “I got invited into an alliance!”

My eyes open wide. “Really? That’s awesome! With whom?”

“The girls from District 5 and District 8!”

Wow. Eighteen year olds the both of them. I’m impressed. “Good job,” I say. “Tell me about it.”

Rosa grins at this, and we settle down into the couches. “It turns out that everybody heard that I was good with chemicals, so then they asked me to be in their alliance. But they had also seen me with a short sword. I mean _really_ short sword (because I can’t really do much more than lift any of the other swords). They said I was pretty good!”

I’m not sure what to make of this. This is better than my wildest dreams. Two eighteen-year-old tributes taking in a twelve year old? It seems too good to be true.

“Can you tell me what they’re like?” I ask.

“Sure. Nicola is from District 5. She’s really tall, and super pretty. She said that she played a lot of sports in school, so she’s in good shape,” Rosa explains. “And I watched her working with ropes—she’s really good at some of the complicated knots.

“And Taylor is from District 8. She’s shorter—but still taller than me—and she is much skinnier, but she can light fires! And she knows how to fight, she said. I saw her working with one of the trainers, and she was really good!”

Rosa is all puffed up and proud right now. So I am careful how I ask the next question: “Did they ask you what you have to offer in return?”

She nods. “They watched me at some of the stations before they asked me to be in their alliance.”

“Which stations?”

“First, we were at the edible plant station. I didn’t think I did _that_ good at it because there were so many plants I had never seen. Then also at the station with the smaller weapons, like the hatchet. Again, I wasn’t the best, but I guess I was good enough for them.”

I’m relieved. But I’m also cautious. “Alliances don’t always work out, okay? I’m proud of you, but remember that it will break at some point, and they might turn against you, or you turn against them. That’s how it works.”

Rosa nods. The smile is off her face now, but she hasn’t lost the spark of excitement that illuminates the room. “I know that. I’ve been watching the Hunger Games since I was born. I just . . . I just am happy that I get to have a chance, you know?”

“A chance?” I ask.

“You know . . . to get out of the bloodbath and try to make it.”

She might as well have punched me in the gut. This poor kid knew the entire time that she had no chance on her own. Of course she knew; she’s not dumb. If I were in her position, I would have known just as well. But it’s the fact that she now thinks that she can make it for an hour or two is what kills me. That her “chance” is not to win but to live for a few minutes longer because she knows how unlikely it is that she will walk away the Victor. I can’t bear it.

“I’m proud of you,” I manage. “And whatever you do, don’t think that you don’t have a shot at winning. You’re not as big as the other kids or as old, but don’t write yourself off.”

“Thanks, Juniper,” she says. She smiles at me, but now it is not excited as it was before. There’s a hint of sadness in the upturn of her lips.

Tasha and Leander arrive then and it’s about time for the training scores to come in. I don’t get a chance to ask Rosa what she did in her private session since she’s being swooped back up into the fuss and chaos of the stylists’ arrival. Green is also hyped up for the release of the scores. I find Pitch and pull him aside.

“District 5 and District 8 girls asked Rosa to be in an alliance,” I say to him under my breath so that no one else—not our escort, nor the stylists, nor the tributes and avoxes—can hear me.

Pitch nods and says just as quietly, “Green says that he’s going to be in an alliance with the District 12 boy.”

“The thirteen year old?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

We don’t have time to discuss it anymore. Everyone is gathering in the sitting area on the couches and chairs to watch the release of the training scores. Lala passes around drinks to us all—I have to pause and remove the beverages from the tributes’ hands since I’m 98 percent certain that they contain alcohol—and we find our seats to watch the results.

One by one, the names and images of the tributes appear on the screen, starting with the District 1 male. The Careers are pretty typical, each one scoring somewhere around 9. Most of the others are around 4 or 5. But the girl from District 5 has earned an 8, and that’s pretty noteworthy. Then it’s time for District 7. I clasp my hands together and hold my breath.

“Evergreen McConnell . . . training score of 3,” says the announcer, Caligula Klora.

Green exhales. “About what I expected,” he admits in what is probably the first moment of humility with him I’ve witnessed.

“Ponderosa Funar . . . training score of 5.”

Everyone’s faces light up with excitement. Green looks around in confusion, and Rosa just smiles so broadly that I can see that a new tooth is starting to come in where it had been missing in her school photo.

The rest of the scores are released. The girl from District 8 has a 6. So their little alliance ends up with scores of 8, 5, and 6. Not bad, all things considered. Green’s alliance is . . . not quite as hopeful. His ally, Coal, has earned a score of 3 as well.

Everyone wants to know what Rosa and Green did in their private sessions. Green proudly announces that he ran around the training center “very, very fast” for the entire time, except that he had to take a break at least twice. Rosa is more modest and says that she worked with her short sword for a bit.

“Thank you, Juniper,” Rosa says as she heads to bed later. “Thank you so much!”

I’m not sure what I did so right, but I accept a hug when the girl gives it, and I find myself hugging back.

The excitement settles down, and after the escort and stylists leave and the kids are in bed, I meander back to the sitting room with Pitch. The television is still going, but it’s been muted. The announcers are discussing what they think each tribute did to earn their scores, and occasionally pictures of the tributes flash on the screen with their name, district number, and training score while the announcers banter back and forth. I’m glad that I can’t hear what they’re saying.

“I guess the fact that Green can’t keep his mouth shut benefitted Rosa,” I say to him as I pause by the small table that always has a few light snacks and a couple of chilled beverages. Grabbing up a can of a carbonated fruit beverage, I turn around to Pitch.

“Is that why the others wanted her in an alliance?” he asks. “Toss me one.”

I carry two drinks over and throw one at him before I plop down on the couch.

“Yeah, the chemical thing.” I pop open the can. A whoosh of gas floats out, and I take a sip.

“You know anything about either tribute?” He opens his own can.

“District 5 is 18. Her name is Nicola. District 8 is also 18 and is named Taylor.” I then repeat what she told me, about their skills and how they watched her at a couple of stations before inviting her.

“Could mean anything,” says Pitch. He pauses and takes a drink. “Maybe they see in her some skill they’ll find useful in the arena, maybe they want to use her as a distraction or shield if anyone attacks them, or maybe they think she’s adorable and will bring them more sponsors.”

What a terrible set of options, some clearly worse than others.

“Your job now,” Pitch continues, “is to meet up with their mentors and figure out a game plan. Try to understand their skills.”

“Work together with the other victors?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Am I supposed to tell them everything I know about Rosa?”

“Not everything. Enough that you can glean some information from them. And as a general rule, pretend like everything you say to them goes to all of the other victors, too.”

Right. So I’m supposed to tell them useful information without actually telling them information.

“You can disclose more once they’re in the arena because you don’t have to worry about the other tributes finding out about anything you say,” he adds.

I fiddle with the tab on the top of the can. It ultimately snaps off in my fingers and then I’m left with a little chunk of aluminum. 

“Who are their mentors? For Nicola and Taylor, I mean,” I ask him.

“Let’s see. . . . I think Elijah is mentoring Nicola and Esther is mentoring Taylor,” Pitch says.

I cock my head and think about it. “So they’re being mentored by a drunk blind guy and a girl who is younger than her tribute?” Wow. I can already tell that this alliance is really going to go places.

“Elijah is _usually_ sober,” Pitch says. “And though Esther is young, this is her third year mentoring.”

Esther is only sixteen years old. She was one of the youngest victors we’ve had in many years when she won at thirteen years old. Not only was she young, but she is also from District 8 which hasn’t had many victors in the past several decades. I’m not surprised that she’s mentoring, but I think it would be pretty awkward to be told what to do by a younger girl, especially when she started mentoring at 14 years of age.

“What about that District 12 kid? Coal? I heard Terra say that her tribute was gluten intolerant,” I say.

Pitch laughs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just . . . Two young kids, each with low training scores and one of them who won’t be able to eat half the food in the arena.”

“That’s not really funny,” I snap.

“Hence why I said that I shouldn’t be laughing,” Pitch says. “But let’s talk about tomorrow.”

“Okay. We’re supposed to go over stuff for the interview, right?” I ask.

“For part of the time. Tomorrow, Lala will work with one tribute for four hours in the morning while the other tribute is mentored. Then in the afternoon they switch. I am going to have you work with Rosa in the morning while Green is with Lala. Then Rosa will be with Lala and Green will work with me.”

“And what do I do then?”

“Exactly what I am going to be doing in the morning—go to the mentor room and try to get a feel for the things that the other mentors are saying. And see if either Elijah or Esther are there.”

It all sounds pretty straightforward, but I know that it won’t unfold that smoothly.

“I don’t even know what to tell Rosa,” I mumble. “And I certainly don’t have four hours’ worth of content.”

“Fortunately for you, I have been keeping track of the other victors and their tributes.”

Pitch has managed to gather enough to fill up an entire four-hour session? Well don’t I feel dumb now. I should have been doing that, and my meager attempts to glean information from them seem really pathetic.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, clearly recognizing my distress. “That’s the sort of thing that comes with mentor experience.”

For the next hour, he fills me in with all of the information he has gathered. Which mentors are reliable sources of info, which ones have good track records, what he has heard about each tribute, the strange rumors that are going around. All the sorts of things that I had no clue were even happening because I’m pretty much lost. I’m on my third can of carbonated juice when it looks like the conversation is wrapping up for the night which is good because I really need to pee. But then he starts giving me tips on what things to encourage for the interviews, what different angles I could choose to have Rosa play, how she ought to present herself to the audience. At the point that he finishes up, I don’t think I can hold it any longer.

“I’m sorry, Pitch, but I need to use the restroom,” I say to him. Before he has the chance to respond, I zip out of the room and right towards my bedroom.

When I return, Pitch is getting ready to leave again. It’s worse now that I know why exactly he’s leaving, and I really don’t know what to say about it.

“Don’t wait up for me,” he says as he presses the call button for the elevator. He’s so casual about this, like he’s heading out for a quick trip to the grocery store or a walk through the woods. Except that he has on a fresh shirt and his hair is combed.

“Yeah, okay. See you later.”

He disappeared into the elevator once again, and I am left with a great pit in my stomach as I watch the elevator doors close behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

_It’s the eighth day in the arena. My left arm is broken in at least two places, and I have managed to fashion a makeshift splint around it. That came from a bad fall when I was trying to escape another tribute. I haven’t eaten anything except carrots, lettuce, and radishes for the past several days, and I feel weak for lack of protein._

_The District 9 tributes are cooking a peacock over the fire. The beautiful feathers that once made the great tail fan lay scattered around their campsite, and I feel sadness that something so perfect is now completely destroyed. It’s good that I feel something, at least. I’ve been so hollow both physically and emotionally for the past several days that the change is welcomed. But I’m not here to admire the birds; I’m here to barter._

_I shuffle out of the bushes into the clearing. Both tributes jump up and grab for their weapons. My hatchet, however, still hangs at my side._

_“I’m hungry,” I say._

_They stare at me, waiting for me to make the first move. Instead I stand there, weak and with my broken arm hugged to my chest._

_“I have vegetables—I’ll trade you for some meat,” I offer._

_For a moment, I think they might attack me, but they don’t. They look at each other for a brief moment before turning back to me._

_“Let’s see what you have,” says the girl quietly._

_“Hang on.” I make a show of struggling to free myself from the bag—clearly my arm is hindering me greatly and I am no threat to them—and then, after a moment of fumbling with the clasps, I just toss the entire bag at them. They start, certain that I have just launched a poisonous mutt at them, but after a bit of prodding the bag with a stick, they finally are brave enough to open. Sure enough, it’s the vegetables I mentioned._

_The District 9 tributes paw around through the bag, pulling out the vegetables and turning them over in their filthy hands._

_“How do we know they’re not poisoned?” asks the boy._

_“I’ve been eating nothing but vegetables for days straight,” I admit. “I just need to eat some meat.”_

_He tosses a radish at me. It hits me in the shoulder and thumps to the ground. “Eat it,” he says._

_I do. It’s not poisoned, that’s for certain. I never want to eat another radish again in my life, though, so it takes me awhile to eat enough that he’s convinced I’m not trying to trick them._

_“Fine. We’ll take this. You take that,” he says, motioning towards a generous chunk of peacock meat on a skewer._

_“The whole thing?” I ask, wide-eyed._

_“Yes. But we’re keeping the bag, too.”_

_“Sure,” I say. I scamper forward, grab the entire skewer, and then dart back into the shadows. The tributes are talking in low voices to each other, and I stay there unnoticed and tear off a chunk of juicy meat which I eagerly stuff into my mouth. I force myself to chew on it slowly so that I don’t eat too quickly and overwhelm my stomach. Last thing I want is to give myself diarrhea in the arena. I know that it’s just plain poultry without any seasoning or spices, but it’s the best damned meat I’ve ever eaten._

_A scream pulls me from my moment of bliss, and I drop onto my stomach. Then I hear the District 9 girl begging, followed by the booming voice of the District Four male:_

_“That’s her sweater! I recognize it anywhere!”_

_Oh no. The sweater that I took from the District Four female—it was in the bottom of the bag with the vegetables!_

_“Please! Please, we didn’t do anything! We just—this bag was just given—” The words are cut off with a wretched gurgling sound followed by a heavy THUMP. A cannon booms above our heads._

_The District 9 male is now scrambling to get away through the bushes not too far from me. I pray that he won’t betray my location. But it’s not needed. His screams come next, followed by what I can only imagine to be multiple stabs with a large weapon. The cries become weaker and weaker, and at last there is another THUMP as his body is discarded on the ground. A second cannon sounds, reverberating through my chest._

_The District 4 male mutters something, shuffles around the clearing a bit, and then vanishes. Shortly afterwards, the hovercraft comes and the bodies are removed._

_Its hours before my heart finally stops pounding against the dirt beneath me. And even then, I’m not confident that I’ll be able to move without breaking. It’s only when the pain in my broken arm becomes intolerable and the faint glow of dawn appears on the horizon that I pick myself up, grab the peacock and the skewer and return to the clearing._

_The bodies and the sweater are gone. But the food is still there. Gathering up the bag with the vegetables, I take a moment to go through the District 9 tributes’ things, feeling like a disgusting freak the entire time I do so. It’s worse than grave robbing. But I do it anyway because I know that it’s my survival that’s at stake, and I gather up as much stuff as I can reasonably carry, including the burned remainder of the peacock above the smoldering remains of the fire._

_I stagger away, wondering if I would have stood a chance against the District Four male had he come in a few minutes earlier and saw me with the bag that held the sweater._

I wake up in a puddle of urine. My sheets are soaked through, both from sweat and, more noticeably, from the release of my own bladder. I haven’t wet the bed since I was a kid, and the fact that it happened now has unnerved me so badly that I’m shaking as I stand up, peel the sheets off the mattress, and carry the soiled linen into the bathroom. I throw it in the corner of the shower and return to the bed. To my relief, the mattress is still dry. The mattress protector must be made of some very strong material to not let that amount of liquid destroy the mattress.

I strip off my clothes in the shower and throw them into the pile with the sheets. The shower is plenty big with multiple nozzles, so I aim one nozzle directly on the sheets and clothing to try to get the majority of the urine away. The avox that cleans my room will know right away what happened, but I don’t want to make the task any more unpleasant for her. And my embarrassment abates as the urine is washed down the drain. I still can’t believe that I wet the bed, and I swear I’ll never tell anybody about it.

What is happening to me, I wonder as I press my forehead against the cool tiles of the shower. Why am I struggling so much to be a mentor? Every victor has to be a mentor at some point in life; most have to be a mentor every year. And yet here I am pretty much reduced to a child.

I don’t have time to dawdle, so I force myself to scrub up, dry off, and dress for the day. I wear as comfortable clothing as I can and head to the dining room for breakfast.

Rosa and I sit in a quiet room off the main hallway of the apartment. It’s just big enough for a couple people to be comfortable, but it’s pretty neutral and allows us to focus well.

“Tomorrow night will be the interviews,” I explain to her, though she knows this already. “You and Green will have a chance to show the Capitol who you are—or who you want them to see.”

Rosa sits cross-legged on the couch opposite from me, sipping a blended fruit drink. She flicks the draw around with her tongue in between sips while she listens to my advice.

“This afternoon, as you know, you’ll be working with Lala. She’ll go over some of the more . . . performance aspects of the interview with you. How to physically present yourself. And then tomorrow your stylist and prep team will get you and your outfit prepared. In the meantime, let’s discuss what things you should say in the interview.”

Rosa thinks for a moment, then says, “No thank you. I’d rather talk about how to survive in the arena.”

I stare at her in surprise. “Well, I guess, but you need to know what to say in your interview. It could get you sponsors.”

“Sponsors won’t help me if I’m already dead,” she says.

“Alright, Rosa,” I say. “What do you want to know about survival?”

She takes a loud slurp of her drink. “What type of arena do you think it’ll be?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Could be anything, though less likely to be something recent. So probably won’t be a garden, jungle, or prairie. Might be a forest since they like to repeat those often enough. But it could also be something entirely different that doesn’t really fall into the ‘natural setting’ category—something industrial or fantastical, for example.”

One year, it was perpetual night. The only light came from the moon and stars above; the flashlights, torches, and fires the tributes made; and from various glowing fungi and animals. It was really freaky to watch, and I can only imagine that the terror was worse than what most of us experienced. In the past there have also been man-made things such as abandoned cities and towns, or hospitals and prisons. Most of the time the settings are more natural such as forests, deserts, and mountains, though sometimes they give some sort of twist to keep things interesting such as various disasters and muttations that aren’t entirely expected. At this point, the only thing I can say is that it definitely won’t be a garden because they just did that, and after so many years running the Hunger Games, the Gamemakers know not to make things too repetitive.

“I went to all the survival stations, and I made sure that I had them show me different techniques for different environments,” Rosa says. “Like if you’re in a place that’s cold, you need to have more leaves underneath you when you go to sleep at night so you don’t freeze. That sort of stuff. But I wish they’d narrow it down a little more for us.”

She sighs and looks at me. “How did you do it, Juniper? How did you actually kill people?”

I stare down at the smooth wood floor. My face warms up. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just . . . did. It’s like I knew I had to, and my body did the rest. It’s probably different for each person, though.”

“Is it hard?” she asks.

I shrug, still not able to look at her. “Yes and no. If I thought about it too much, then yes, it was hard. But if I didn’t think, then it wasn’t that bad.” I cringe. Not that bad? How shitty of a thing to say.

Rosa takes another noisy slurp of her drink. “I wonder if it’s hard to die.”

Now I do look at her. She’s not looking at me, but watching the pendulum swing back and forth on the wall clock.

“Probably just like killing—different for each person,” is all I manage to say. I have no experience with losing my life, only with taking others’.

For the next several hours, Rosa prods me for information about survival in the arena—in all sorts of arenas. She wants to know how other victors had survived various situations—freezing, dehydration, being cornered by the Careers, etc.—so that she can add it to her mental notes. As unusual as this conversation is, I’m just glad that she clearly has some hope for the future if she’s trying to figure out how to survive once the gong sounds.

“What about in the bloodbath? Is it worthwhile to risk getting supplies?” she asks.

“Once you’re raised up and can see the arena, you need to check a few things before you can make that decision. The first is, what type of arena is it? If it’s something like a desert, you’re definitely going to need supplies. The second is, in what direction are you going to escape? And, if that doesn’t work out, what’s your backup escape route? Before you go into the supply area, you need to know how to get out. The third is, what tributes are near you? If there is no one near you who is a direct threat, you’re more likely to be able to run in and grab what you need.” It’s a logical progression. I had written this all out before I had entered the arena, carefully compiling a list of what I needed to do after gleaning information from various sources.

It’s only a few more minutes before Lala comes in and tells us that it’s time for lunch. Rosa leaves me, and it takes several minutes for me to gather myself together and head out to join them.


	16. Chapter 16

Before I leave, Pitch gives me some information about the various things he’s heard in the mentor room this morning.

“Some people are on edge and others are very loose with their speech,” he’s telling me as I am putting on my shoes near the elevator. The tributes are finishing up lunch with Lala, who is going over some general information with them. I don’t like leaving them with her, but that’s not something I can help.

“Alcohol?”

“That or people are just getting apprehensive for their tributes,” he replies. “Just be careful and don’t push any buttons.”

I frown. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Juniper,” he says with exasperation. “Maybe because I know you? Or it could be because you stormed off from lunch the other day? Or because you’ve already broken items in the apartment?”

I tie the last knot in my laces and stand up. “Fine. I won’t push any buttons. But I doubt that any other victor is getting lectured to not push mine.”

He holds up his hands. “Suit yourself. Just remember that you’re not the only one who can get screwed over.”

I glare at him as I push the elevator button, and I keep glaring until the elevator arrives and the doors open. Even once they close, I’m still glaring. Really, I must be the only victor who is getting lectured like this.

At the mentor room, I find that there are only a handful of other people here. I assume it’s because at least half of them are tied up with their tributes like Pitch is. But I manage to find Elijah pretty easily and flop down on the couch opposite him.

“Juniper,” he greets me.

“I think you really do have functioning eyes and this is just a gimmick,” I say, motioning towards his face where the blank-looking marbles stare back at me.

“It wouldn’t be the strangest conspiracy I’ve heard around here,” he replies easily. “Anyway, our tributes are allies now.”

“So Rosa tells me.”

“Did Pitch explain to you how this works, from a mentor perspective?” he asks.

“He told me some.”

“Right. I guess I’ll just have to fill in the rest then.” He doesn’t sound very thrilled about it. But he continues regardless, “Our computer systems will be linked together so that we’ll have constant communication with each other. We can choose to pool together sponsorship money or to keep it separate. The moment that the alliance ends, however, the money is immediately separated.”

“So that nobody can benefit from a broken alliance?”

“So that nobody can use the money from a dead tribute.”

Ouch. “That’s, uh—”

“Completely logical for a culture that supports child torture and murder? Yes,” says Elijah with so much bluntness, I’m at a loss for words. “Tributes would be making alliances and then intentionally killing their allies simply to have access to their banks. So, because the government thinks that something in the Hunger Games must be fair and their own pocketbooks deserve far more respect than a bunch of starving, dying teenagers, they have these rules in place.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. How can he just say this stuff? Surely this room is bugged. Hell, it may be one of the most bugged rooms in the entire building. But this blasé behavior is something that I have never once witnessed for fear of backlash. I can’t even rant about how shitty the District 7 escort is for being so cruel when talking about our tributes, and here is this guy just going on in public about the government as a whole.

He continues, “You can use whatever station in the room over there that you want. The big district numbers are just for show. So once tributes start dying and more room gets freed up, alliances can sit together if they want. Or if you’re just tired of Pitch, you can always move to a different seat.”

At this moment, Esther walks in. She’s a small girl with dark circles under her brown eyes and brownish-blond hair that is pulled back in a disheveled braid. Her movements are so quiet that I don’t hear her sneak up. But Elijah does.

“Hey, Esther,” he says.

“He, Elijah,” she replies quietly. She sits down on the same couch as me, but perches on the edge of the seat as though she is about to jump up and run away at any moment. She gives me a reserved, tight-lipped smile.

“I was just introducing Juniper to how the computers work with alliances,” he explains to her. She nods as if to show that she understands, though Elijah can’t see it.

“Taylor was telling me about Rosa,” Esther says to me. “She seems like a smart girl.”

“Must be something to her if a couple of eighteen year olds want to ally with her,” says Elijah. “Though that may just be because Nicola is too soft and motherly.”

“Nothing wrong with being motherly,” says Esther.

“Unless you’re in the arena and it’s going to get you killed, sure,” Elijah replies.

“Well, she can’t change her nature overnight,” Ester says with finality.

I remember watching Esther’s Hunger Games. It was two years before mine. At thirteen, she was the youngest tribute there, and since she was also from District 8, she wasn’t expected to make it very far. But she thrived in her arena—a great, grassy prairie—and due to a few Gamemaker events that took out some of the stronger competitors, she managed to make it through to the end. Still, it’s weird seeing this girl two years younger than me talk with other tributes so confidently. She’s quiet, but she appears to be able to hold her ground just fine.

I decide that I like her and want to get to know her better. However, that will have to wait.

But it’s time for me to try to take part in this conversation. Hopefully I won’t sound like a moron. “What should I know about your tributes?” I ask.

Esther shrugs. “Taylor is pretty easy to get along with. She follows directions pretty well, and she knows how to fight a bit. I can see her asking Rosa to be an ally—she was talking her up the other night before she asked. Trying to figure out if I supported it. Said something about her knowing how to use chemicals.”

I’m not sure about this chemical thing. What’s the significance of it? Not every Hunger Games have any sort of chemicals—very few of them do—and yet it keeps coming up as one of the selling points for my tribute. I’ll have to ask Pitch about it later.

“Uh, let’s see,” begins Elijah. “Nicola follows me along pretty much anywhere I go and asks a constant stream of questions. Had to lock her in her bedroom the other night so she would stop knocking on my door. But she seems quite capable—just very adamant that she has all the information she can get.”

“What about Rosa?” Esther asks.

“She’s a pretty sweet kid,” I say, though I know it’s not really a great selling point in a murder game. “She wanted to make sure that her alliance partners saw something in her—she wants them to make sure they know she can hold her own.” It’s a little bit of a fudge, but I’m not sure what to tell them. “So she was pretty happy they watched her at a couple stations yesterday before asking her to join them.”

It seems like a mediocre alliance. Nothing really holds them together, but they aren’t so inept that it’ll fall apart at the first moment of stress. I give them three days before they fall apart, but Elijah says he’s really hoping that they make it to at least two. Esther, on the other hand, just stares quietly at us and shakes her head.

None of us are really willing to give too much information about our tributes at this point. I don’t know if it’s because we don’t trust each other yet or because we don’t trust anyone else who might be listening in. At least I now know that everyone seems to want to be Rosa’s ally and this isn’t a forced or imagined alliance.

Esther walks with me back towards the main elevators that will take us to our respective floors when our meeting ends.

“You’re lucky you have so many victors in your district,” she says. “There’s only a few of us and . . . well, you and Pitch get along so well. And I know that Elm is also very nice, and so is Vesa. I wish I got along as well with the others as you do with Pitch.”

“And have rumors spread?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

She shrugs. “Pitch is kind. There are worse people. And there are also worse rumors.”

“Such as?” It seems like I am constantly learning about the filth of Capitolite lifestyle. Just when I think that they can’t get any worse, something else comes up.

Esther shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says.

I know that she doesn’t want to repeat anything because we are being watching, so I just grunt in reply.


	17. Chapter 17

Rosa is in the shower when I arrive back to the apartments. She had asked Lala to show her how to put on some makeup, and Lala had been delighted to give a little tutorial to the tribute. After her face was caked with garish powders and pastes, Lala sent her away to clean up.

For the first time in a long time, I’m famished. Perhaps it’s knowing that my tribute has some hope, or maybe it’s the fact that my body is entering into starvation and the need to eat outweighs my anxiety, but I am forced to listen to its cravings. Despite the fact that it’s almost time for dinner, I ask the avox to bring me some snacks while we wait. The avox disappears, and I head to the lounge.

Pitch and Green are watching a program on television. It’s some sort of news program or another that’s going over highlights from this past week, mostly focused on the Hunger Games, of course. I sit down in the chair next to the couch. A small table with a lamp and a stack of coasters separates Pitch and myself. Green lies on the floor on his stomach, chin cupped in his hands as he takes in the program.

“Just some light television viewing?” I ask skeptically.

“He wanted to watch TV. Figured this was better than most of the crap on it.”

The avox bring in my snack—a tray of apples, cheeses, and crackers with a glass of fruit soda—and sets it down on the table between Pitch and me. I thank her and immediately start shoving food into my face as I turn back to the television.

The announcers talk about a party that is scheduled for tonight, then they do a segment about the weather, and then the next thing I know, there is video footage of Pitch and me in the park. The camera is far away and it doesn’t pick up what we’re saying, but it’s very clear that it’s the two of us seeming to enjoy our time together.

“…Our newest victor is hitting it off pretty well with her fellow District 7 mentor, Pitch Yassen,” the announcer is saying.

The co-anchor nods, and adds, “According to our sources, they’re getting a bit close—closer than most victors—as they work together to bring their tributes to victory.”

And all I can think as I sit here and watch it is, _THIS is newsworthy?_ Of all of the things that are going on in the world, this is what they find to show on television?

Green rolls over and looks up at us. “So the rumors are true?” he asks. “Are you guys in love or something?”

Now I’m confused. I stare at Green.

Pitch beats me to the question, “Green—didn’t you start this rumor? Didn’t you tell the other tributes that you saw us?”

Green laughs. “No! But that’s hilarious! You guys really are together? Wow, here I thought that everyone was just trying to make me angry or something!”

The breath leaves my lungs. I can only stare at Green. If he wasn’t the one who spread the rumor, then—

“Green, did you tell everyone that Rosa knows how to use chemicals?” Pitch asks carefully.

“Nah. No need to—she told everyone herself.”

I can’t breathe. Holy shit, I can’t breathe. I try to suck in air, but my throat is closed off, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t take a breath. I’m gasping now, gagging. My lungs start to wither as they strain for oxygen. My heart thumps as it rapidly pushes what little oxygen I have to the rest of my body.

“…is she okay?...” I hear Green asking.

“…yes, she is just choking on her crackers…”

“…I know the Heimlich maneuver…”

And then I feel Pitch’s hands on me. He’s hoisting me to my feet. We’re walking. Don’t know where. Vision is going black. My lungs burn and my throat is ragged and hot as I desperately try to suck in air—even a little air. I stagger along as Pitch supports me, and then I hear a door close behind us.

There is silence. The sound of the television is gone. Green is far behind.

Pitch sits me down on the floor with my back against the wall.

“Listen to me. You need to take a deep breath. No, not like that. Deep.”

“I—I can’t!” I barely gasp out.

“You can. Force yourself.”

I do. I force myself to take a big breath, and though I feel like I don’t get any oxygen, my chest expands ever so slightly. I do it again on Pitch’s directions, and then again. Finally I can feel a little more stable. My vision starts to return, and I can breathe again, though I have to continue deliberately taking breaths so I don’t resort to shallow ones and start the process all over.

Pitch sits down next to me and we wait several minutes as I get ahold of myself.

When I do, I realize that he is shaking. I grasp onto his arm.

“Did that just happen?” I demand. “Did Green—did he just tell us that Rosa spread the rumors?”

Pitch nods. He appears to be at a loss for words.

“We have to go to dinner,” I say at last.

He only nods again.

“We have to pretend that everything is okay.”

Neither of us moves. It’s only when Lala knocks firmly on the door that I find the strength to stand up, reach out, and help Pitch to his feet. Then we take turns in the bathroom cleaning up to look presentable.

The gusto with which I ate my snack is gone. I never want to eat another morsel of food in my life. But the two of us leave Pitch’s bedroom and head back to the common area where we join the others at the table. Green eyes us skeptically, and Rosa is bounding with energy as the avoxes set out the last of the dishes for our meal.

Lala looks pointedly at us. “You really need to focus on your tributes rather than your own desires,” she scolds us.

“Juniper was choking on a cracker,” Green lets her know.

I’m immediately grateful to Green for his attempt, but I feel a lurch in my gut. I don’t want to think about what we did—the decisions we made based on the information we thought we had—but I know that it’s inevitable. Once we get through dinner, I’ll have to find time to talk with Pitch.

Lala and the tributes start on their meals, and I once more push food around my plate. Pitch manages to eat more than me, I think, but I can’t make myself even look at him right now. Nor at anyone else. My eyes are on my plate only, at my untouched food that will inevitably be thrown away. I’m too upset to care if I’m wasting anything, and I don’t care if there are starving children in the districts who would be appalled to see me leaving food behind.

Finally I look up at Lala. “After dinner, can you go over the interview procedure with Rosa and Green for a few minutes? Pitch and I need to have a mentor meeting really fast.”

Lala looks disgusted, so I add, “We’ll be in the hallway, right over there. Won’t take long.”

As much as I’d like privacy, I also don’t want us to get a reputation for being more interested in our so-called “desires” than our tributes’ well-beings. And that’s also really the only thing that’s keeping me from getting up from the table and leaving right now.

But Lala is determined to drag dinner out as long as she can. She talks about her day and the people she spoke with and the places she went. The tributes, who are still quite taken with their escort because they don’t know what I know about that wretched woman, ask her questions and feed her ego. Now that no one is focused on me, I can at least find the strength to look at my tributes. Namely, Rosa.

The little girl has her long brown hair swept back out of her face and pinned with diamond barrettes. Surely she got them from Lala. She’s smiling and chattering with her. Honestly, the kid is the picture of innocence. It’s only for this reason that I don’t find myself overwhelmed with repulsion at the apparent manipulation. I’m angry, of course, but it’s this heavy sickness that takes precedence within me, and none of the anger is able to make its way to the surface.

“Tomorrow, your stylists and prep teams will get you all made over for the interviews,” Lala tells them. “It’ll be a lot of fun! You’ll get to wear a pretty dress, Rosa, and you, Green, will look very handsome in your outfit. Everyone will just eat you both right up.”

“I hope I don’t get stage fright,” Rosa says. She looks over at me, waiting for me to reassure her that everything will be okay.

I manage a smile. “You’ll be fine,” I say.

“My friends and I used to practice interviews,” Green starts in. “And we’d all try to say as much as we could as fast as we could in under three minutes. I normally came in second place.”

The conversation continues on as such for several more minutes. Then, at last, Lala asks the avoxes to clear away the dishes, and she gives me a cutting look before she stands up and asks the tributes to join her.

Pitch and I immediately vacate to the farthest portion of the aforementioned hallway. There we hunker down and try to keep our voices low.

“I’m going to ask Rosa,” I say before he has a chance. “I’m going to ask her if she started the rumors.”

“That’ll just make things worse,” Pitch tells me. He throws a glance down the hallway, and I follow suit.

“Pitch, I need to know,” I insist. “I can’t just assume that she made them—or pretend that she didn’t. That’s what happened before. We just _assumed_ that it was Green who made the rumors.”

“And then I made a decision on how to mentor him based on that assumption,” Pitch says bitterly.

I don’t want to blame him or make him feel worse, but I can only nod. He had asked me if I thought if Rosa had made it up, and I had said no. “No” because there was also that other rumor. And “no” because I, like Pitch, assumed that Rosa was innocent and talkative Green was the instigator because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Okay. Maybe she has a good reason why she did that.”

I can’t even fathom what such a reason would be. Leading us to believe that Green had spilled her “secret” was so damned manipulative on many levels, but it could be part of her strategy. However, I don’t understand why she would want to spread a rumor about Pitch and myself. It doesn’t make sense.

I want to ask what we’re going to do about Green, but I don’t know how to bring it up. It’s heavy in the air, but neither of us want to mention it. I am just relieved that Pitch didn’t outright discontinue mentoring the poor kid, even if he didn’t give him as much attention as he should have because much of his time was spent helping me help Rosa.

There’s nothing more to be said, so we head back down the hallway and into the main sitting room to meet the others.


	18. Chapter 18

Rosa and I are back in the room where we discussed our interview prep earlier today. I told her that we’d be doing a few last minute things before going to bed tonight so that she and Green can focus on their interviews tomorrow. Rosa readily agreed.

“I have a question, Rosa,” I ask. She looks at me intently. “Did you tell the other tributes that you know how to use chemicals and then say that Green told everyone?”

She sits on the couch and stares hard at me. The innocence and excitement is no longer on her face, but a peculiar expression that I can’t read. Like she’s trying to decide whether I am trustworthy.

“I won’t be angry,” I say. “I am just trying to help you out, so I need to know some information.”

“Yes,” she says simply.

“Why?” I ask, doing my best to honor my previous statement and keep the sudden flare of anger at bay.

“It’s part of the Hunger Games, right?” she asks.

“Well you do want to be able to trust your team,” I point out.

“Do I? I don’t want to trust anyone. You said so yourself: alliances break up.”

“This is different, Rosa, and you know that. Besides, I told you that _after_ you told me that Green had spilled your secret.” I struggle to keep my irritation from showing even though it’s threatening to spill out.

She just stares at me.

“Fine, whatever. Did you also tell the other tributes about Pitch and me?”

She doesn’t answer, but the look on her face says it all. There’s a stony defiance to it, and I know that she’s not going to give in.

I wonder, is this the same child that was reaped only a few days ago? Has she already hardened into a jaded tribute? Or has she always had a thick blanket of innocence to wrap around a deceitful core? What percent of this tribute is innocent child, and what is experienced manipulator? I’ll likely never know, and all just the same, she is still my tribute. No matter what, I’m not going to give up on her. She can’t die just because I’m too angry at her to see past her less enjoyable traits and behaviors.

“Alright, you don’t have to tell me,” I say at last. “But I do want you to know that I’m not going to give up on you, okay? I still think you have a shot at this, and I’m not going to abandon you because of this.”

Her eyes flicker down to the hardwood floor and she twists her hands together. I think she might break and say something, but she doesn’t. Instead we’re plunged into a long silence.

“I’m happy you got an alliance. Really, I am,” I say. “And I think you have a lot to contribute to it.”

Especially, I think, because I now know how tricky she is and how eager she is to play people against each other. That is a skill I’ve seen so well executed only in older teenagers and adults. The fact that a young kid is so good at it will mean that she’ll likely have the talent to play things her way in the arena. But it may also be her downfall if there are tributes who are much more observant than the rest of us.

“Did you tell me we were going to have more training just to interrogate me?” Rosa asks suddenly.

I frown. “It was critical information for me to know.”

“Wanting to know if I lied about Green and also spread some stupid rumor is critical?”

Damn, what the hell is going on? I sit up straight and answer honestly, “Yes, because it impacts our relationship. If I’m going to help you, I need your cooperation. We can’t be on different pages or else this will never work.”

She thinks about that for a moment. I watch her carefully to see if I can anticipate her next move or question. However, she gives nothing away.

“I’m going to die, and you’re worried about this stuff?” she asks.

“Yes, actually, I am,” I reply. “Because I’m supposed to be helping you. I can’t help you if you’re not receptive to it.” And now I’m echoing what Pitch said. I guess I do learn quickly.

“But even if I confess to all that, you’re still going to help me?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” Agitation starts to eat into my tone. I’ll let her tire herself out with another question or two, and then we’re done. There’s no reason to drag this on any longer. I have the information I need.

“Even if I’m weak?”

“What?” I ask.

“Even if I’m young?”

“Well, you _are_ young,” I say somewhat puzzled where this is going.

“Even if you know that I won’t make it until the end?”

“I told you that I think you have a shot,” I say with exasperation.

“You didn’t say that in the beginning,” she says.

“I didn’t know anything about you in the beginning.”

“And now you do.” She stands up brusquely, holds her head up, and leaves the room.

I lean back into the couch and stare at the door as it swings closed behind her, my mouth agape. Her absence is a void more than a relief, and I don’t even know where to begin. The questions and confusion are entangled in my brain and I can’t make sense of anything that just happened.

I groan and put my face in my hands. Rubbing my eyes, I wait until I start seeing stars and blurs of color before I allow myself to try to sort it out. Did she . . . do all of this to get my attention? I am utterly bewildered.

At last, I leave to go find Pitch, but he has already left for the night. Lala is gone, and the tributes have returned to their rooms. With nothing else to do, I find a book and plop down on the couch. It’s a relief to disappear into the pages and not have to worry about the real world.

I read for hours until Pitch returns. I give him a minute to gather himself together and then I sit up so that I’m certain that he sees me. With heavy steps he comes over and sits down in the arm chair.

“Different perfume this time?” I ask when I get a wave of something vaguely piney.

“Couldn’t stand the other stuff,” he said. “Bought her different perfume as a gift.”

That’s weird. All of it is weird. Are we really just casually talking about this?

“What did Rosa say?” he asks.

“She admitted to lying about Green blabbing her secret. Said it was part of the Hunger Games,” I said. “Didn’t verbally admit to starting the rumor about us, but she pretty much admitted it with her face. That kid is. . . .”

“Kind of freaky? I’ve had tributes try all sorts of weird things, but this one might take the cake,” Pitch says. He picks up a bottled water that is chilling in a tub of ice on the end table and screws off the cap. It takes him only a few seconds to drain the entire thing.

“I reassured her that I’m still working with her, but she seems so hostile now.” I close the book in my hands and set it on the coffee table. “I wanted to believe that this was genuinely innocent or that there was something that happened in the training room that she was trying to cover up, but she was so cold and calculating when I talked with her.”

Pitch listens to me and nods. “Yeah, I’m surprised, but mostly because I didn’t expect something like this from her. Other tributes I’ve met, maybe. But that kid? No way.”

“What do we do?” I ask.

“Not much that we can do,” he says. “Just keep trucking along. Again, a rumor about a romantic relationship isn’t that bad. Might not be what we want, might make things uncomfortable. But it certainly could be worse.”

“That’s what Esther said.”

“C’mon, it’s time for bed. I think we both need the rest,” he says as he hoists himself to his feet.

I pick up my book and swing my legs over the side of the couch. The soft carpet cushions my step as I sleepily head back towards my bedroom.

“Hey, Pitch?” I say when I’m partway down the hall. He has lingered behind in the sitting room as he finds a trash receptacle to throw away his bottle.

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to be gone every night?”

“It’ll end eventually. Always does.”

I nod. But that means that at some point it’ll always start up again.


	19. Chapter 19

The next morning, the tributes are whisked away early to begin their interview preparation with the prep team and stylist. Lala frantically runs around between all the people who have gathered in the small apartment, trying to wrangle this person to one room and that person to another. I know she’s just doing her job, but I’m tired of hearing her voice.

“C’mon,” says Pitch. “Get dressed in something comfortable and let’s get out of here.”

“Can we?” I ask. I honestly don’t remember what Pitch did when it was my interview day.

“Yes. It’ll be the last stress-free day in awhile.”

I snort. “This has all been stress free?” I ask incredulously.

He gives me a wry grin and disappears down the hallway to his bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, we are leaving the training center. I don’t know where we are going, but I’m very happy to get away from all of the chaos within. It’s not just our floor that’s alight with activity because as soon as we stepped into the foyer, there’s dozens of people zipping back and forth with clipboards and rolling chests of equipment and giant lamps and whatever else. There’s also a lot of paparazzi clamoring about to get shots of the teams going to work. The press, like everyone else, will need to wait until the interviews tonight to know what’s really happening, but it doesn’t stop them from getting some good stories right now.

I can breathe a little easier with the building and all its occupants behind me.

“We meeting up with other mentors?” I ask him. I had thought he was going to take me to the mentor room, so I’m surprised that we’ve left the building entirely. Though the large number of people in the lobby makes me think that the mentors must be meeting up somewhere else.

“No,” he says. “Just wanted to get away for a bit.”

That sounds . . . nice. For once, I’m okay with him leading me everywhere because it means I don’t have to think about anything. I allow my brain to shut off as we take a train and then a bus through the Capitol. I can’t believe how large this city is. And it seems that the longer we travel, the newer the buildings get.

We leave the bustling city and enter suburbia where manicured lawns and picket fences line wide streets with clean gutters and sidewalks. People go about their lives here, and it looks peaceful. I’m reminded about being in the park and how everyone looked like they were really just living their lives. That’s how it is here. We pass by a house where a couple of kids are drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, and there are a couple of mothers taking a walk with their babies in strollers, a mailman pulls up to a perfect white mailbox. It really is weird. Everything looks so . . . perfect.

At last we get off the bus and Pitch leads me over to a simple street lined with quiet shops and restaurants.

“This is the Riverwalk,” he says, motioning towards a large river to the immediate west of the street. There are more cafes and restaurants with outdoor porches and dining areas facing the river. It must be absolutely lovely through here around sunset.

“I . . . never thought the Capitol had anything like this,” I say. I feel a moderate amount of respect. But I squash it down when I remember that nothing here is worthy of my respect. Not when I see little signs in the windows where people can purchase trading cards of their favorite tributes.

“Thought it would make a good place for a walk,” Pitch is saying as he leads me across the street and towards the riverfront. I follow after him, careful to look both ways.

We reach a wooden pathway that runs along the river.

“I honestly thought the Capitol was just a giant city. I didn’t expect this.”

“It was, until about fifty years ago or so,” Pitch explains. “There was a population boom in the Capitol around the same time as the one in District 7—most of the districts, really—and people just wanted more space. Give it another fifty years, and people will have built across the rivers and up into the mountains.”

I follow his gaze out across the river towards a few small mountains on the other side. They’re beautiful, and I’d hate to think that one day they’ll be covered with buildings.

“They had a population boom, too? Great, just what we need, more—people.” I catch myself just in time.

“Without the sudden population growth, everyone in the districts would probably still be living in poverty. But since you can’t have so many people starving, the Capitol created a bunch of programs to raise the standard of living across the country.”

I’d heard this before. The Capitol realized that people on death’s door didn’t make very good products or infrastructure, so they had to feed us better, pay us better, and educate us better in order to make sure we didn’t screw up. There was still poverty, of course, but much less of it. And people like myself had a shot at being educated at one of the district colleges once high school ended. At least I did before being reaped. But I hadn’t realized that it was ultimately the growth of the Capitol that drove the changes. Now I can understand why people didn’t want to crowd into the city.

I want to hate it all, I really do. But the way the river glitters under the sun’s morning rays, or how the water laps gently against the pillars that hold up the wooden walkway on which we now stand, or how the birds circle through the air to keep an eye on the fish—it’s quite beautiful.

“I wish the training center was over here,” is all I can manage to say.

We are quiet as we walk along the river’s edge. Large deciduous trees provide shade as we walk, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Every once in awhile, I see a Capitolite appear and start to inch closer, but I don’t give them the satisfaction of engaging us in conversation. Instead I pretend that Pitch and I are alone out here without the constant eyes of the random passers-by sizing us up.

“We should eat somewhere,” Pitch says.

“I’m not hungry,” I say. It’s true, but I also don’t want to go anywhere near the people. I want to stay out here and pretend that no one else exists. It’s much more relaxing this way.

“You need to. How much have you eaten since you arrived here? A couple thousand kilocalories? If that?” he watches me out of the corner of his eye as we walk. I find myself bristling at what he’s saying. “We’ve been here nearly a week. You need to eat.”

I nod. I do need to eat. I’ve been feeling weak recently, though of course I attributed it to stress. Even if it were, the lack of food certainly isn’t helping. But how does one eat when one does not have an appetite and every food tastes as good as paper?

“I don’t want them watching us as we eat,” I say rapidly, hoping that no one else will possibly hear. I shoot glanced around us carefully, but I know that people can be found where you least expect it.

“There’s not much other option,” Pitch says. “They’re going to want to put us right front and center somewhere.”

“Where we’ll make the news again,” I groan.

“Yep,” he says, but he doesn’t sound nearly as bothered as I am. Probably in another dozen years, I’ll be just as jaded as him. But for the time being, the idea of having people watch us eat—not of being in public eating around others but of having them actively watch us—really unnerves me. I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage. The only other option, besides not eating of course, is to ask for a place that’s private, and it really won’t help the rumors.

“Alright, fine. But I pick the place,” I say.

He chuckles. “Sure. Just don’t go to the sushi place a couple blocks from here. I’m not sure they pass the Capitol safety code.”

“Noted,” I say, and I’m already scouting out the local restaurants for some place that will be decent.

At last, I choose a little sandwich shop that has plenty of outdoors seating with views of the river. If everyone’s going to be watching me, I don’t want to be forced to watch them. So Pitch and I head over and are immediately seated at the table of our choosing.

Back home, going to restaurants like this is a pretty big deal. We have delis and food trucks and those sorts of things were people—particularly working people in a rush—can grab some food to go. But to actually sit down and have someone wait on you is a much more important thing. I’ve gone to several restaurants in my life so I know how to behave in one, but it’s still pretty strange to be here. It’s very different from the restaurant I went to with Isolde, Demeter, and Lady the other day, where we didn’t even have to order and barely saw the wait staff.

Pitch lets me have the chair with the best view of the river. Such a gentleman.

“I don’t even know what half this stuff is.” I’m looking at a menu, but the words appear to be in a foreign language. Maybe not. Maybe we just don’t have need for such fancy sandwiches in District 7. Most of the delis I’ve seen have things such as “turkey on wheat” or “pastrami on rye” or whatever. Not this sort of stuff. “What’s Havarti?”

“A type of cheese,” Pitch says without looking up from his own menu.

“Muffaletta?”

“I think that’s the bread.”

“Chevre?”

“Another type of cheese.”

“Wow, they can’t just say ‘cheese’?”

Pitch lowers the menu. “What do you want in plain speech, and I’ll order it for you in fancy speech?”

“I can order just fine.”

And that’s how I end up ordering something that Pitch says as soon as the waiter walks away is lamb’s heart and artichoke.

“How was I supposed to know?” I demand.

“I told you I would help you,” he says. Then he grins. “Now you have to eat it.”

“Only if I like it.” But I know that the entire point of stopping to eat was to get me to actually eat.

We spent the time talking idly, neither of us really touching upon the Hunger Games or the tributes we mentor, except for a few light comments here or there. Now is not the time and place to plan anything, nor to discuss some of the more serious matters of our duties. I find myself wondering how Pitch does this all, jumping so easily between mentoring tributes who will ultimately die to being rented like some sort of property to enjoying a quiet lunch on the banks of a peaceful river like nothing is wrong in the world. And I also find myself wondering if he is, in fact, completely insane but manages to fool us otherwise.

An avox comes and fills our water glasses several times, making sure that they are always at least half full. It’s unnerving to have someone pop up in the middle of your conversation time and time again but not contribute to it at all. Every time he shows up, I find that our conversation momentarily drops away before returning again as soon as he leaves.

At last our food shows up, and if Pitch hadn’t told me what I had ordered, I never would have guessed it because it looks pretty damned good. I take a couple small bites at first just to test it out. It’s not bad. I take a few more bites, once again careful not to upset my stomach after eating so little the past several days. Pitch eats his sandwich—something with several types of meats and cheeses and vegetables—while watching my reaction very carefully.

“It’s pretty good,” I say at last. This earns a smile. But there is little room for talking while we are eating. It’s nice to be able to eat in peace since the last few days have been so swollen with conversation, especially around meals. I don’t feel like there is any certain pressure to finish eating by a certain time or to force myself to be professional. I just eat, and that’s that.

We are finishing up our meal when a woman comes up to us. She has glittery makeup sweeping away from her eye and across her cheeks. Her eyelashes are painted white, but they, too, have a glitter coat on them so when she blinks, it almost looks like snow falling upon her cheeks.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says. “My name is Pythia Todner and I’m a local reporter. I was just wondering if I may ask you two some questions.”

When she smiles, I feel as though she is a wolf about to gobble us down whole.

Pitch reacts much more quickly than I do—and much more tactfully than I would have.

“Thank you, Ms. Todner—“

“Pythia, please.”

“Alright. Thank you, Pythia. I’m afraid that Juniper and I aren’t doing any Q&As at this time. But if you give me your information, I’ll reach out to you as soon as we are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Yassen,” Pythia beams. She reaches into the waist of her blouse and pulls out a small business card. It’s shiny, and the little bits of glitter drift down like miniature raindrops onto the table. Pitch excuses us, pays quickly, and then we leave.

We spent another hour at the Riverwalk before heading back to the training center. We need to be back in plenty of time to freshen up and see the tributes to the interviews. I had done very well at blocking out most of the Hunger Games, but the last interaction with the reporter has me on edge.

When we arrive back at the training center, Isolde meets us by the front door and walks to the elevator with us past the various paparazzi and personnel. Once the elevator doors close us away from them, she crosses her arms and smiles.

“Just wanted to let you know that the most recent word is that you guys won’t stay off each other in your apartment,” she says. “Which has been verified by a certain District 7 escort.”

I open my mouth. “That’s just—” But I can’t finish because the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open to the District 7 apartment to reveal one very perturbed Lala. She has been perched by the elevator waiting for the moment we returned.


	20. Chapter 20

Lala steps closer to drag us out of the elevator, but Pitch and I leave of our own free will before the woman can dig her claws into us. I turn and give one look at Isolde who is watching us with an amused smile as the elevator doors slide closed. I don’t understand that girl. But I do know that she bought us an extra couple seconds when there was nothing in it to benefit her.

Now I can’t ignore Lala. Her face is strained and the powder has creased where she had tried to cover a few small wrinkles not yet removed by Capitol plastic surgery.

“I can’t believe you two running away together when your tributes need you the most!” she hisses, turning from one of us to the other.

Pitch speaks up, “Lala, I’m never here when—”

“Exactly! You’re never here!” she continues. Now she throws a glance over her shoulder to make sure that neither the other Capitolites nor the tributes are in the vicinity. I’m not sure where everyone else is, but I wouldn’t be opposed to them walking in right this moment so Lala has to stop. But they don’t, and she doesn’t. “Your tributes are beside themselves! Abandoned by their mentors!”

“We didn’t abandon them—”

But my words are no good, either. “Those kids are pretty shaken up by the fact that neither of you guys were here today.”

“We are never here when the stylists and prep teams are working on them,” Pitch reminds her crossly.

“Well you can be! The way you’ve been treating these tributes is reprehensible!” she snaps.

I grit my teeth. _She_ is calling _us_ reprehensible?! After her saying that the tributes were mere pawns to get what she wanted in her life? She doesn’t care one bit about them! She only wants to advance in her stupid career. The anger flashes over me in a heartbeat, and I can’t stop it.

“You don’t care! You’re just here because they pay you, and you don’t care about the tributes’ wellbeing! You’re a cold-hearted bitch who—”

Suddenly her hand shoots out and she slaps me across the face with such force that I stagger backwards. Pitch grabs me and keeps me from tumbling against the wall. His arms wrap around me and he draws me against his chest. I can feel the thump of his heart against me, distracting me momentarily from the pain in my face.

“Don’t you _dare_ do that again,” he warns Lala with a dangerous edge in his voice.

“Listen! I have done _enough_ damage control for you already as it is,” Lala says. “District 7 would be the laughing stock of the Capitol if it weren’t for me. You go in there and comfort your tributes. You don’t ever leave their side again, and we will forget that this little outburst happened.”

She looks at me, her eyes lingering. The normally excited and glimmering escort is scowling with a ferocity I have never thought possible. But I felt her hand—the heat on my cheek is testament to the pain she can induce. I hope that she doesn’t interpret the angry tears that threaten to roll down my cheeks as pain or fear or sadness or anything other than the pure rage I feel towards her. I wiggle to get out of Pitch’s arms, but he only holds me tighter.

Lala presses the elevator call button and it’s there within seconds. She vanishes out of the apartment, and the last thing I see as the doors close is her staring at the reflective metal panel fixing her makeup.

Pitch doesn’t let me go for several minutes until we both have calmed down.

“You okay?” he asks.

When I nod, he releases me. I press my back against the wall and stare up at him. My cheek still hurts. I’m sure there will be a welt, but I don’t check right now because I’m afraid I’ll get angry all over again.

“Last year, you didn’t stay with me on interview day when the stylist and prep team were making me up,” I say at last.

“I never do. None of us mentors do. There’s no need to, and it’s accepted that this is our last day before things get really heated up, so we normally do something that allows us to take our mind of things,” Pitch explains. “We did nothing wrong. But obviously something’s up.”

I draw in a deep breath. “I guess we’d better go check on the tributes.”

“You want to try to cover that?” he gestures at my cheek.

I shrug. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not until the interviews. At least put some ice on it now.”

The sitting area is empty save for the occasional avox, and I ask one of them for an ice pack. Moments later, she returns with a small cold bag. I thank her and press it to my cheek.

The apartment has a couple of rooms meant intentionally for the stylists and pep teams to prepare the tributes so that everyone stays pretty close. With my ice in hand, I follow Pitch towards these rooms. He disappears into the one with Green, and I knock on the door to the one with Rosa and her team.

Leander opens the door and waves me into the crowded room. The three prep team members—Salsa, Trevor, and Staria—are gathered around a chair in which Rosa sits. They are trying to apply makeup, fix her hair, and polish her nails all at the same time. But the moment they see me, everyone stops and looks up. They look a little embarrassed, and it’s then that Rosa turns around and looks at me. She’s been crying.

Such bullshit. I press the ice against my cheek harder so that I focus on the pain in my face rather than on the anger inside me.

“You okay, Rosa?” I ask.

The others are all staring at me, judging my reaction, waiting for me to do the right thing. But I don’t know what the “right thing” is at this point, like I’m trying to take a test on material I never studied.

Rosa sniffles in response.

“What’s going on?” I try again.

When she doesn’t respond, I look at Leander and the prep team members and say politely, “Do you mind excusing us for a minute?”

The mutter “of course” and “yes, we’ll be right back” as they set down their various instruments. I move out of the way as they scurry by me.

Once they are gone, I close the door and walk over to Rosa.

“Apparently you’re inconsolable because I wasn’t here by your side,” I tell her.

She nods.

“I’m sorry that my absence disturbed you—” It takes everything in my power to pretend to be nice right now “—but remember that Lala told you yesterday what to expect and I explained to you this morning that we weren’t going to be here because you were going to get made up for tonight?”

She nods again.

“So what really happened?” I demand.

Rosa thinks for a minute. Then she shrugs.

“Did you tell everyone what I was neglecting you to spend time with Pitch?”

“Strategy,” she says at last.

“ _That’s_ your strategy?!” I stand up straight and loom over her where she sits in her chair, hair wet and half-pinned into place. “You understand that by undermining myself and Pitch, you’re only hurting you, right? I told you yesterday that I was still going to help you!”

It’s a good thing that these rooms are close to soundproof. Someone is watching us from some remote location, I’m sure, but those aren’t the sort of people who will run away with the tiniest bit of drama to gossip to the world.

“And are you?” she asks.

I let out a sigh. “Yes,” I concede. “Yes, of course I am. But stop saying stupid crap, okay?”

“Can you send the team back in? The pins in my hair are uncomfortable and I want them out.”

Damned little demon child. I throw her another look, head to the door, and force my expression to be neutral. When the prep team and stylist return a few moments later, I’ve managed to make expression much less annoyed.

“What happened to your cheek, dear?” asks Leander as the prep team scuttles back around their tribute.

“Got kicked by a wild beast or something,” I respond and press the ice harder against my skin.

“Once they’re finished with Rosa, I’ll have them take a look at you,” he says. “In the meantime, it looks like you’ve cheered your tribute up, so go get some rest and take a shower.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I thank him and disappear to my bedroom where I lay on the bed and brood for a couple more hours until I force myself to get up and shower.


	21. Chapter 21

It’s almost time for our tributes to line up for their interviews, and there’s chaos and confusion as tributes, mentors, escorts, and stylists gather around each other, mingling and rushing and trying to put the finishing touches on everything.

“It’s only three minutes,” I remind Rosa. “You get up there, they ask you a few questions, and then you’re done. And you’ll never have to worry about it again, okay?”

She nods.

Leander has done a wonderful job on the girl. The dress is cute and dainty, but not so immature that it plays up her childishness. The makeup looks heavy now, but once she’s under the burning lights and the cameras are recording, it will look simple and amazing. There’s a bit of glitter on her cheeks. Her hair is in a half ponytail so that part of it hangs around her shoulders and the part that is pulled away from her face is braided and interwoven with a glittering thread.

“Any last minute questions?” I ask her as Leander puts the finishing touch on her dress: a sprig of pine that is pinned near her clavicle.

She shakes her head.

“Tributes line up!” calls out a voice, and the escorts begin to usher the tributes into their positions.

My heart thumps as though I am going to be the one up there on stage right now, and I can’t help but be nervous for Rosa and Green. I remind myself that I am safe and that I am alive and that I am no longer a tribute. Pitch leads me away from here, and we leave the behind the scenes to find our seats out front.

It’s strange how different it is from this side of the interviews. Pitch and I sit with several other victors. There’s a few empty seats which must be for Leander, Tasha, and other stylists. Before us is a magnificent stage—larger than any I’ve seen in my life aside from, of course, when I stood on it last year—with a great red velvet curtain. The audience rumbles with excitement as they wait for the show to begin, and I feel revulsion at their attitude towards this whole thing.

After several minutes, bright music begins to play, and the audience cheers wildly. The curtains part, and there is Caligula Klora waving to the audience. His smile is so wide that it can only be false.

“Let’s welcome our tributes!” he says. He gestures broadly, and the tributes come out in a line, starting with the District 1 female and ending with the District 12 male. There is a pretty significant height difference between the District 6, District 7, and District 8 as the two little tributes file in with the rest. Some of the tributes are soaking in the attention, while others look to be about two seconds away from fainting. Most, however, look just a bit stunned. I remember that feeling.

“I know you guys cannot wait to begin, so let’s get started!” Caligula booms out. He turns and waves towards the District 1 female. “Joy, would you join me up here, please?”

The girl beams at Caligula, stands up from her seat, and walks proudly over to him. Her long, floor-length dress swishes after her, but each step is confident.

One after another, we see the interviews. Each one takes a different angle, or at least attempts to do so. Not everyone has the charisma and onstage presence like Joy from District 1, but no one is absolutely terrible, either.

And then Caligula is asking Rosa to join him.

“Ponderosa Funar,” he says, the smile never leaving his face. When she is at his side in front of the mic—which Caligula pauses to adjust so that it’s closer to her size—his smile only broadens. “Welcome to the Capitol, Ponderosa. Or do you go by a nickname?”

“Rosa, please,” she says. Her voice is so pure. It’s a complete contrast to most of the tributes we’ve seen so far. If she is experiencing stage fright, it doesn’t show.

“Well then, Rosa, I was quite taken aback when I saw you at the reaping. You looked so much smaller there, but I can tell that you’re not nearly as tiny as you seemed on television,” Caligula says kindly.

She grins at him, and I know that the partially-erupted tooth is clearly visible both to the interviewer and also to the cameras picking her up at this moment.

“Everyone thinks I’m young and small, so they write me off,” Rosa admits.

“And they shouldn’t, should they?” asked Caligula.

“No, they shouldn’t,” Rosa says. “I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

Pitch shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye, likely wondering exactly what we discussed in the interview preparation yesterday. I don’t give any sort of response—verbal or otherwise—and instead focus on the little girl on the stage.

“You have some tricks up your sleeve then?” Caligula asks.

Rosa smiles. She doesn’t answer. She just keeps looking out to the crowd with that smile on her face, both confident and sweet at the same time.

Caligula tries again: “What is your favorite part of being here in the Capitol, Rosa?”

Rosa thinks about it for a moment. “I really like the food. And I like the people! Lala always makes sure Green and I get to where we need to go, and my mentor is really good. She really knows her stuff.”

I raise an eyebrow. Uh, yeah, okay. Where did this come from?

“Your mentor is treating you fine? I’ve heard a rumor—”

Rosa giggles. It’s not the nervous fit of giggles one might fall into when placed under pressure, but an innocent, schoolyard thing when a silly joke has been passed between classmates.

“Oh, I think she’s madly in love, but that’s okay. One day I will be, too,” Rosa replies sweetly. It’s enough to make the audience _awwww_. I let a hiss escape between clenched teeth and tell myself that at least she isn’t throwing me under the bus.

“Yes, you will be,” Caligula reassures her. “And then you’ll bring him—or her—back to the Capitol and show ‘em off to us, okay?”

Rosa nods eagerly.

The rest of the interview goes smoothly. Rosa is just a charming little girl, but she makes herself out to be something a little . . . different. Not your typical twelve-year-old tribute, but not something deadly like the other older teenagers. The three minutes finally ends, and then it’s Green’s turn.

Caligula barely gets in a word edgewise while Green runs off all the things that he wants to say during his interview. The kid barely stops talking and almost has to be manually moved from the microphone.

With the two of them finished, my nerves settle a little and I’m able to watch Taylor of District 8. It’s a simple interview with nothing particularly remarkable except for the training score she received. Later, when my mind isn’t so cluttered, I’ll have to sit down and watch Nicola’s, Taylor’s, and Rosa’s interviews again.

“That went better than expected,” Pitch says as the anthem ends and people begin to shift around in their seats. He stands up and I follow suit.

We head backstage again to reclaim our tributes. Lala is already there, congratulating them for a job well done. She looks annoyed to see us, but since her duty is primarily to make sure that she comes across as flawless, she plasters a smile on her face and pretends that everything is just peachy.

“Good job, Rosa,” I say. She smiles at me. It might be a genuine smile, or it might be fake; I can’t really tell anymore and I’m kind of over it.

Lala directs us to a private car where we all climb in for our ride back to the training center. The escort gushes over the tributes for several more minutes, then she begins to go over tomorrow’s schedule. It’s a sobering lecture, really, considering that all of the hype and excitement from tonight is ultimately leading up to their deaths tomorrow. The tributes sense it as well, and the more Lala talks, the weaker their smiles get until they’re gone altogether. Only the escort is still pumped up from all the activity of the day, and she clearly doesn’t care that no one else is as enthusiastic as she is.

“…You’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow before you need to get ready. And make sure to take some snacks! Of course you can’t take them in the arena, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a bite to eat before you leave.”

I would like to strangle her now, and she must sense it because she turns at me and stares hard at my cheek. The prep team had covered it up well, but it still burns a little when I talk and Lala must know it. But it’s enough that I keep quiet and don’t say anything at all.

On she talks for the remainder of the mercifully short drive to the training center where we are unloaded and head up the elevator.


	22. Chapter 22

After the tributes have showered and eaten dinner, we find ourselves at a loss for what to do. Lala has disappeared to take care of “some important things” and I’m afraid that Pitch will vanish soon, too.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures me. “Not tonight.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

I get Pitch to help me move the dining room table, then after he heads to his room to shower, I set up an area where I let the tributes throw anything they want at the wall. They look surprised at me when I tell them that they’re welcome to pick up the most expensive shit in the entire apartment—aside from what’s in our rooms—and heave it as hard as they can at that wall. I have a few sheets stretched out on the floor to catch most of the shards and debris to keep cleanup for the avoxes as minimal as possible.

“Are-are you serious?” Green hesitates.

“Totally,” I say. Then to show them that I am, I grab up a vase, set the dripping flowers aside, and then heave the vase against the wall where it smashes with a great noise.

Rosa gasps. But then the next thing I know, the tributes are in a flurry of excitement grabbing up objects—any objects they can wrap their hands around—and heaving them in that general direction. They’re laughing and howling and creating quite a stir. At last the chaos brings Pitch out of his room. His hair is still wet from the shower and he’s pulling on his shoes as he comes down the hallway.

“Is everything okay?” he demands as he comes into view.

“Juniper is letting us break things!” Green yells.

“Anything we want!” Rosa shouts.

Pitch stares blankly at me. I just grin back at him. “Old fashion stress relief,” I tell him.

He turns to the smashed pottery, broken picture frames, glasses and dishes, and the television remote that Green has tried to break four times but hasn’t been able to damage yet.

Then the tributes are running around the apartment like little beasts, making noises of all sorts and just screaming at the top of their lungs. They bound around in circles, wailing and flailing, grabbing onto things in passing and bringing it back to the wall to smash.

Lala returns just as Green is picking up the couch cushions and howling like a banshee, and Rosa is heaving a statuette of an ancient goddess across the dining room.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?!” she cries out, her voice lost in the chaos. Her eyes are wide and her hands begin to curl around the papers she’s holding, crinkling them in the middle. But her confusion turns to anger, and she starts towards Green.

I’m laughing so hard that there are tears running down my cheeks.

“Give this back! This isn’t yours to destroy!” she grabs onto the couch cushion. But Green lunges forward and digs his teeth into the soft fabric of the cushion like he’s a wild dog fighting for a piece of meat. Lala is so startled that she yelps and jumps backwards, releasing her grip of the cushion. Green tumbles to the ground but quickly bounces up again, laughing and howling some more. He sends the cushion flying towards the dining room, but it’s a long shot and only proceeds to slide across the top of the table before coming to a rest.

Rosa has a chair from the dining room set in her hands now, and the next thing I know, it’s being heaved at the wall. The chair leaves a sizeable dent and falls to the floor, more or less unharmed. But she’s grabbing for another chair now, screaming all sorts of profanities that, under normal circumstances, would be unsuitable for a twelve-year-old kid.

“Get them under control!” Lala hisses towards us as she runs over to wrestle the chair away from Rosa.

Rosa’s holding her own pretty well, and it becomes clear why the older girls wanted her to be a part of their alliance. Lala eventually overpowers her, though, and pushes Rosa to the ground where the girl lands, stunned.

I’m at Rosa’s side in a heartbeat.

“If you hurt her—” I say to Lala.

“I didn’t hurt her. She hurt this wall! Who is going to pay for this wall?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” I say. “Maybe it can come out of the Capitol’s child murdering fund.”

Lala has me pinned to the wall by my throat before I can blink. Her hold on me is firm, but it’s not very strong. Had I been prepared for it, I could easily have deflected it. But the suddenness of it has taken me off guard. I’m about to knee her in the stomach when Pitch steps in, grabs Lala by the shoulder, and separates us.

“This is just ridiculous,” Lala huffs as she steps out of Pitch’s reach. She looks ruffled and takes a brief moment to compose herself. Then she surveys all the chaos around: myself, against the wall, but now with Pitch partially blocking me; Pitch, looking downright furious at the escort; Rosa, still on the floor with a stunned expression; and Green, who is in the living room singing at the top of his lungs what I can only describe as a sea shanty.

The escort straights up. “I’ll be back here tomorrow morning at 5:30 AM. I expect the tributes to be ready to go.”

No one says anything as she heads to the elevators and leaves.

I lean over and help Rosa up to her feet. She appears unharmed but still a bit startled.

“You okay?” I ask her.

She nods. “Why did she do that?”

“Do what?”

“Push me and then grab you?”

“Oh. Lala really likes things to be in order. And I pissed her off pretty good earlier, so I think she wasn’t in the best of moods.” I shrug.

Rosa looks at the debris littering the room.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

“Is that why your cheek was red?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Turns out that I’m not the only one with a temper.”

Just the only one who can be held accountable for it.

But I grin at her. “Did you have fun breaking shit?”

She laughs. “Yes! I’d like to do it again sometime. Just not right now. I’m tired!”

She heads off to get ready for bed, and Pitch finally manages to get Green under control a few minutes later. The kid is alternating between laughing and crying and wailing and swearing. But at last he is sent to go cool down in his room.

Pitch finds me in the dining area where an avox and I are cleaning up the mess. I can’t be certain, but I think the avox smiles when she first walks in and sees the damage. However, if it was true, it vanishes in the blink of an eye.

“I probably shouldn’t even ask what started all this,” he says as he leans over and grabs a corner of one of the sheets, now laden with broken debris.

“Sometimes it just feels good to break shit and scream into the void,” I say casually. “And if you’re going to go die, it’s not like there are really any consequences. Besides, what else were they going to do tonight? Sit inside their rooms and cry until it was time to leave in the morning?”


	23. Chapter 23

Pitch, the avox, and I finish cleaning up the apartment within a couple minutes. Most of the loose items were broken so there wasn’t much to put back. Pitch makes me take a few minutes to drink some water (which I was desperately hoping to avoid now that I know that my bladder doesn’t always wait til I wake up) and eat a snack before I’m allowed to go back to my room.

“Tomorrow’s going to be rough, Juniper,” Pitch says as I nibble on a wedge of cheese. I just look up at him dully. “The tributes will leave early, and then it’s time for us to start our duties. We’ll go to the mentor room, pick up our gear, and then make our presence known.”

“What does that mean?” I ask him.

“There’s normally a bloodbath party. And a post-bloodbath party. And . . . well, there are a lot of parties that we will be expected to attend tomorrow.”

I feel like if I eat any more cheese, I’m going to vomit, and yet I’m still eating because I know that I have to.

“How do we mentor if we’re not near our computer stations?” I feel my spirits sinking. I had imagined that I’d be primarily sitting in front of a computer til my tribute died, interacting with nobody except for the mentors in my tribute’s alliance.

“They give us these devices that attach to your wrist—like watches, in a way—and then we can keep track of everything that we would be able to from our computers,” he explains. “It’s a mobile station. And they’re very useful because, unfortunately, the job requires a bit of chatting up Capitol citizens to get money for our tributes. You’re going to hate it, but you’re just going to deal with it, okay? You need to do it for Rosa.”

I nod. My stomach is tight and queasy.

“We . . . also need to figure out how to handle the rumor,” he says.

I look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“The rumor about us—we can’t just continue ignoring it,” he says. “We’re either going to have to deny it or go with it.”

I rub my cheek absently as I think for a moment. “Is there nothing in between?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Can we just kind of . . . skirt around it? Neither confirm nor deny?” I ask.

“It’ll get pretty sticky. Might end up saying contradictory things. And, no offense, Juniper, you’re not really the best of liars.”

I’m not offended. I’m too busy trying to think to be offended. “I just . . . don’t want to do something that contradicts whatever Rosa is doing. I don’t want her to get killed because we do something stupid.”

Pitch sits back in his chair and exhales.

“Remember what I said about letting the tribute take care of herself in the arena? That at some point we have to accept that there’s nothing more that we can do besides sending in sponsorship gifts?” He watches me carefully. “And as soon as we get to one of these parties, people will be all over us trying to find out the truth.”

“So what’s your idea?” I ask.

He hesitates. “There are so many factors to take into consideration. There’s the rumor itself, and then there’s what Rosa said at the interview, and then there’s also Lala’s take on it. And I know that neither of us like Lala, but she’s also well respected in the Capitol, so if she says something, it’s bound to override whatever we’re saying.”

“She seems to think that we spend a ridiculous amount of time having sex,” I say dryly. “If we deny the rumors, it’ll look like we’re guilty but trying to hide it, which she can use against us. If we say that they’re true, then she’ll just tell everyone how much time we spend together ignoring our tributes.”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”

I tap my fingers against the table. “If we say that the rumors are true, but exaggerated, we don’t have to, like, start publicly groping each other and making out, do we? I mean—no offense. It’s just that—”

Pitch laughs. “No, we don’t need to. We’ll just tell everyone ‘work first, inappropriate touching later.’”

“Ugh, thanks,” I say.

He’s still laughing.

“What?” I demand.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry,” he says. But there’s still amusement in his eyes.

I stare at the table. “It’s just that this’ll be my first relationship since I was thirteen and Hunter Soun tried to grab my boob. I broke his arm and kicked him in the crotch so hard that he needed to go to the ER and get stitched up.”

Pitch sounds surprised when he talks (I don’t know why—he should be used to this by now), “I’ll make sure to keep my hands under control, then.”

And now I’m dating my former mentor. It seems so weird to think that. I can’t say that he’s like a brother to me because I’m an only child and the concept of sibling relationships is a bit lost, but I’ve never viewed him as someone I was romantically attracted to. I enjoy his company and I don’t mind when he hugs me, but I’m not sure I’m ready for everyone to think we’re more than what we are. Yet this is well out of my control, and I can only do whatever to make sure things don’t get worse. “Damage control” as Lala called it. Except I’m not trying to advance my status for petty purposes; I’m just trying to live my life and keep my tribute alive as long as I can. Esther said that Pitch wasn’t that bad, and I agree with her. He’s easy to get along with and he always watches out for my best interest. I know it could be worse, but I can’t help but being irritated regardless.

Pitch reaches out and puts his hand on mine. I pull my hand away.

“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work,” he says. “People will see that and wonder what is going on.”

“We’re not out there yet,” I reply.

“But if your first reaction is to pull away. . . .”

“It won’t be,” I assure him. And I hope I’m right.

“Okay then. We will meet out here tomorrow morning at 5:00 AM,” Pitch says. He stands up.

I remain where I am. “Have to eat,” I say weakly. My cheese and crackers have barely been touched.

“Juniper, do you need something to help you sleep?” he asks.

That’s an option? “Like alcohol?”

“I was thinking melatonin,” he says with furrowed brows.

“Oh. No, I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”

“Alright,” he says. He gives me a last look, then heads down the hallway to his room.

True to my word, I stand up shortly afterwards and push away the plate. I’m not going to eat anyhow, and I really should get sleep if I need to be here at 5:00 AM to start attending parties or whatever. I head slowly down the hallway, my head tumbling full of information. There’s too much to sort out, and to have to pretend to be dating Pitch makes it even more confusing. I’ve almost reached my room when I see that there is a figure waiting by my door. I blink my bleary eyes. It’s Rosa.

She wraps her arms around me and gives me a big hug. I hug her back and don’t release her until she lets me go. Tears roll down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice heavy. “I just . . . I just wanted a chance to win. And I was angry. I’m really sorry.”

She places a slip of paper in my hand, then turns and heads down the hallway. Carefully I unfold the paper and wonder what could have been so serious that she’d have to write it down but couldn’t say. However, I only find my own handwriting staring back to me. It’s the slip of paper with blotted ink and the strengths of Rosa and Green. A paper I had left behind with many others as I had sulked off to my room on the train. I had thought that Pitch had picked it up, but maybe I was mistaken. My heart sinks as I realize that Rosa had seen this paper—all the papers, the ones listing their strengths and weaknesses—and maybe even overheard our conversation many nights ago when I was so overwhelmed with the prospect of mentoring a tribute that was as good as dead.

Before she disappears out of sight, I call out in a loud whisper, “Rosa!”

She turns and looks at me.

“I am still mentoring you. And I will still continue to mentor you.”

She nods and vanishes into her room.

I enter my own room, close the door, and cry myself to sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

_The faces of the District 9 pair appear in the sky the next night since they had died after the last anthem. For the first time in days, I feel well-rested and well-fed, and yet I’m just as empty as I was before I got ahold of the roasted peacock. There are six of us left in the Hunger Games, and it seems like it has already gone on far too long. Most of the Careers are dead, except for the District 1 female and the District 4 male. Then there is the District 6 male, District 8 male, and District 10 female. I never bothered to learn any of their names because ultimately it doesn’t matter. The couple names I did learn—the two who were going to be part of my alliance—made no difference since the tributes were killed in the bloodbath._

_I have killed two people here, and yet I don’t feel like it really got me anywhere. Instead, I am just tired in my chest and it seems like this Hunger Games will never end. The ninth day of the Hunger Games is coming to a close, and I want the entire thing to be over. Yet I also don’t want to be the one to initiate it._

_I’m sitting on a stone wall about eight feet high. It’s left me pretty exposed on all sides, especially if there is a projectile aimed right at me, but I find that I really don’t care at this point. But from here, I can see the stars above my head and find the constellations I loved back home. It’s nice to know that at least they have given us one piece of normalcy in this nightmare. In the distance, I hear the trumpeting of elephants and the stamping of their great feet. I’ve gotten used to the noise of the topiary mutts making a ruckus every time someone comes close to them. They scared me at first, but now they . . . just exist. They’re just a piece of the arena, no more, no less. Just like the greenhouse and rose garden and hedge maze and bubbling brook. There’s nothing really to be scared about anymore. They just exist._

I wake up with a great heaviness within me. I shower, but it doesn’t wash away. I dress, but I can’t pull out the stone that’s lodged in my thorax. I lace my boots and head out to the sitting room where I find Pitch looking just as weary as I feel.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Don’t we get to say goodbye to the tributes?” I ask.

“No, we don’t. But they will be in the good care of their stylists,” Pitch reassures me.

We walk to the elevator, and Pitch pulls out the book that’s jutting out of my front pants pocket. “What’s this?”

I look at him, silently begging him to let me have the book. He reads my face for a moment and then hands it back to me. “Just don’t get too absorbed,” he says halfheartedly.

We go to the mentor room where most of the other mentors have already assembled. A few are still straggling in. The mood is somber, and it doesn’t appear that everyone is really awake just yet. The large screen has the seal of Panem on it now, and the clock in the bottom is closing in on zero. In just a few hours, the Hunger Games will begin. In the lounge, a great spread of delicious breakfast foods are spread out on the table, but no one is eating. I know I cannot eat. I have no appetite.

Once everyone has assembled, a man in a clean white uniform tells us to get to our stations. I trod after the others and plop down in my designated chair between Pitch and Esther. Esther looks as tired as I am, and she offers me a weak smile. I manage to return it, but just barely.

Now a couple of white-clad people are going through and giving each mentor a wristband with a small watch face on it. They check off each one on a list on their tablet, speak briefly with the mentor, and then hand the mentor the device. Some mentors grab it up easily and fasten it to their wrists. They flick their arms around and plop their fingers against the watch faces, playing eagerly with their new devices. Others just accept it and slip it on silently. Then there are others like Elijah who says that he wants one with a blue band because it’s his favorite color, or Rikuto of District 6 who asks for a hypoallergenic, sustainably harvested strap to not offend his delicate skin or ethical code. The officials don’t humor either of them and manually clap the bands on the mentors’ wrists.

“Pitch Yassen, District 7. Mentoring Evergreen McConnell,” one official reads while marking off the list. A second pulls a device out of the box and hands it to Pitch.

“Juniper Sadik, District 7. Mentoring Ponderosa Funar.” They hand me a watch and I turn it over in my hands. Despite its light weight, it’s bulky and the strap is made of pretty solid stuff. I fasten it to my left wrist and then turn my arm over to admire its shiny face. As I had watched the others do, I tap the black screen with my finger and it comes to life. Immediately I see a small picture of my tribute with her various stats. When I choose the menu button, I can access the arena map (currently blank with no data), other tributes’ stats, Ponderosa’s bank (currently empty, but Pitch tells me that’s standard), and a help screen.

As soon as the monitoring devices are handed out, the mentors begin to meander around the room. Some head to the lounge, others leave entirely. I wish I could leave, but I’m not certain where we would go. Yesterday was our last day of “fun” before the Hunger Games begin, so I doubt we’re allowed to distract ourselves by any means. And I certainly don’t want to leave if it means going to one of those horrible parties.

“The map and bank don’t appear until after the bloodbath ends,” Esther explains to me. “That way we don’t get distracted and can watch the opening of the Hunger Games with everyone else.”

Oh joy.

Isolde then appears in front of me.

“I know this probably sounds absolutely crazy to you, but good luck to your tribute. I mean it, really,” she says with seriousness. “Careers don’t get a good reputation for a reason, so I can’t say I blame you if you think I’m just being some smarmy asshole.”

I look up at her tired green eyes. Makeup is caked on underneath in an attempt to hide the dark circles.

“We all look like a bunch of zombies,” is all I can think to say.

Isolde laughs, the heaviness suddenly vanishing from her tone. “C’mon, let’s go remedy that.” She looks at Esther. “You, too.”

I heave myself to my feet as Isolde says to Pitch, “Don’t worry, I’m just taking her into the lounge.”

Whatever. Esther and I trail after Isolde as she hurries off to the other room.

In the lounge, Isolde finds us great big steaming cups of coffee, which she eagerly hands out to us. I don’t drink coffee anymore since I no longer need to be awake into the small hours of the night to study for school, but I’m very willing to start up again right this moment. Without adding any sort of cream or sugar, I gulp it down straight away. It burns my tongue, but I don’t care. I’d inject myself with this stuff right now if I could.

Isolde leads us to a free set of couches and we flop down to enjoy our drinks. The television screens are on and displaying some sort of pre-Games coverage, but someone has thankfully muted it.

“We can’t turn it off,” Isolde says when she sees me staring at the screen. “So we mute it, and when it gets really bad, we’ll just cover it with a towel or something.”

Nice. We can’t get away from the Hunger Games even when we need to take a break.

“When things get really, really bad, you can always go into the bathroom and scream. That’s what I do,” she assures me with a smile.

“Uh, thanks.”

Esther is watching the screen pretty intently. They’re showing some footage from previous Hunger Games alternating with pictures and videos of the current tributes. It seems like pretty much the same garbage that they’ve been showing all week. But they don’t need to add anything new with the Hunger Games so close—then they’ll have all the excitement that they can handle, and then some.

The caffeine starts to work, and all of us begin to perk up.

“Pitch mentioned parties . . . when do those start?” I ask as I sip on my second cup of coffee.

“The first one begins at 9:30 AM,” Esther says. “We can be fashionably late, but we need to be there before the Hunger Games start at 10:00 AM.”

“I was really hoping it would be at Hezekiah Bumbat’s this year,” Isolde says, more to Esther than to me. “That place was so large you could get lost in it for days if you weren’t careful.”

“Where is it this year?” asks Esther.

“The Royal Palace,” sighs Isolde.

“There’s a palace?” I ask. How strange!

“It’s not really,” Isolde explains. “It’s a mansion of some pretentious rich guy. It started as a nickname, I’ve heard, but then eventually stuck. It’s over on 15th Street.”

Oh. Well, it’ll be interesting to see a mansion regardless.

Pitch and Demeter come over eventually, see our coffee, and then head over to get their own. When they rejoin us, Pitch tosses a muffin on my lap. “Eat.”

“Wow, way to not get some for the rest of us,” Isolde says. She stares at Pitch until he rolls his eyes, returns to the food table and comes back with two more muffins for Isolde and Esther. Esther thanks him politely and Isolde gives him a wink.

It’s easier to eat when the other two are eating, too. That probably doesn’t make sense, but seeing them manage to eat their breakfasts without a problem encourages me to do the same. It’s slow-going (none of us are really hungry, it seems), but it gives me something to do while we talk and wait for our time to get moving.

“How’s your relationship? Or should I say ‘faux-ationship’?” Isolde asks us. She laughs at her own pun. I’m not really sure if her word makes sense.

“Well, it’s a thing now,” says Pitch.

“Oh?” Demeter raises her eyebrows at him.

He shrugs. “Lala got it into her head that we keep disappearing on our tributes because we can’t stay out of each other’s pants, so it’s not like denying it will get us anywhere,” he says honestly. I sink down into my seat a little. I know that I shouldn’t be embarrassed by this, but I still feel awkward talking about it so openly. “We’re going with the ‘it exists but not as bad as Lala says it does’ sort of thing.”

Demeter harrumphs. “Lala is—”

“A very sore subject and not something to be brought up right now,” Pitch interrupts her, watching my expression the entire time.

He directs the conversation to other things. Eventually Hammer comes and joins us, and then Terra of District 12. At long last, Pitch stands up.

“Time to get ready,” he says. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are finally at the bloodbath. Nearly 50,000 words into the story.

Pitch, Esther, Demeter, and I all go in the same cab to the party. Isolde and Hammer are going with some of the others from their district, but not before Isolde had applied some makeup to Esther and I and lent us some of her outfits to wear. When she said that sometimes she goes to the bathroom to scream, I’d believe it; she had set up an elaborate wardrobe and makeup station that she allows anyone to use as long as they asked her permission or, in our case, are invited to share.

As the car pulls up to the “Royal Palace,” I find myself gawking at the sheer ridiculousness of the size. It’s big enough to fit an entire neighborhood in, it seems; large, sprawling lawns are filled with benches, gazebos, and lawn games, but it’s the towering building itself that leaves me in awe. Under what conditions did someone think it would be a great idea to build something like this? It must have dozens and dozens of rooms. How could there be enough people to possibly occupy them all? It makes the mansions in Victor Village look like cozy little cottages. And this is a smaller place than last year’s party according to Isolde.

“You ready?” Demeter asks us.

I don’t answer for a moment. Isolde lent me an emerald green dress that’s soft to the touch and quite comfortable. But despite that, I feel naked. Even knowing that the book I brought with me is tucked into my borrowed purse, I just don’t feel prepared enough to take on whatever is heading my way. At very least, if I need to run, I can because I declined the offer for heels and kept my sneakers instead. But I sure as hell don’t feel ready to plunge into the fray.

“I guess,” I reply to the older victor. We pile out of the car and stand on the sidewalk. There are others here—so many others. People clumped together out on the lawn, talking and drinking and eating. Ridiculous outfits of all sorts in bright shades and dark shades with glitter and streamers and vibrant glowing lights. Children and adults and even the elderly. Everybody is made up in their finest outfits, sporting the newest hairstyles, and waiting to show their support for their favorite tributes. There are large televisions in the gazebo, and another tucked into a copse of trees. But I know that I will not be allowed to escape into the yard to watch the bloodbath. I will be monitored closely by every eye in this party.

A hand clasps mine, and I’m surprised to find that it’s Esther’s. She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. In her purple cotton dress, she looks quite sophisticated. But despite her outfit and Isolde’s expert hand with the makeup brushes, I can sense that she’s terrified down to the core. I don’t let go of her as we walk up the path and towards the front door, ignoring the stares and comments from partygoers hanging out on the lawn and under the shade of trees.

Laughter and loud music greet us as we approach the front porch. Great marble pillars frame either side of the doorway. An avox greets us with a polite nod when we step inside. People crowd into the main foyer and even more people must be filling the adjacent rooms. There are televisions blaring everywhere, and avoxes scampering around with plates of food and beverages.

And then there are people greeting us. Lots of people. Dozens, maybe, it seems. Or maybe it’s only the same five people over and over. I can’t keep track of them all, but I’m shaken when they touch me—a light pat on the shoulder, a grasp around the waist, a kiss on the cheek, a friendly hug. I don’t want to be anywhere near them, and this is too much for me to handle.

I want to run away. I want to turn and flee. But Esther hold my hand tightly, and I’m holding hers just as tightly, and if one of us leaves, then the other has to go as well. And that’s not an option for either of us.

Pitch and Demeter lead us around, navigating the sea of strangers with ease. And I’m so overwhelmed with everything that’s going on that I do what I do best: I zone out. I just let the world go by me as I mindlessly pick up different things: a laugh that’s too sharp, potted plants that really just need to be smashed open by an expert (me), the smell of alcohol and honey, bits of conversation that don’t make sense.

I am almost relieved when a cry goes out that the Games are about to begin, but the moment of relief is replaced by absolute dread. I don’t want this. I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to watch all those kids die. I don’t want to _relive_ this.

Esther and I get separated as she is whisked away by the other District 8 mentor, and I find myself staying as close to Pitch as I possibly can. I catch my reflection in a mirror and realize how overwhelmed I look. My eyes are large and flitting about, my skin is sallow, and I don’t look like I’m a confident, comfortable mentor. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself once again that I am alive and safe. Then I force myself to pay attention to my surroundings and the people who hover near me—even if only to know with whom I stand—and then I focus on the closest television. Caligula Klora and the Hunger Games announcer, Janice Lovely, are in their places giving last minute predictions and insight.

“C’mon, let’s go find a place to watch,” Pitch says to me.

I nod eagerly. Anywhere but here. There’s too many people, too much excitement. Too much everything.

He leads me through the crowd towards a grand corridor with doors on either side. I glance into each room as we pass. There is a sitting room and a library (sadly, packed full of people and not nearly as welcoming as I’d expect) and a music room. A bathroom. No, three bathrooms. A study. A . . . ballet studio? I don’t even know what’s going on with these rooms anymore. At last, Pitch and I duck into a sitting room that is significantly less crowded than others. There’s still quite a few people in here, and a couple of them wave us over to sit on the couch next to them. I don’t want to—I’d rather just stand in the corner behind the statue of some long-dead person—but Pitch leads me over to the couch. We sit down wedged between a man who’s in his early twenties and a woman whose age I’ll never be able to guess. She might be fifteen, she might be fifty-two. Nothing about her wardrobe and makeup and hairstyle really fit together to define her in a specific category, and the heavy, bright colors she has painted on her face mask the details.

“Pitch, you’ve brought your special friend with you today!” gasps the woman. She reaches out and touches my shoulder, and I successfully stifle my natural reaction to recoil.

“Ah, yes. Juniper,” he says to the lady. And to me he says, “Juniper, this is Romela Dernsnuff. She used to be an escort many years ago.”

“Oh, of course I know who you are, Juniper,” she says. Then she adds, “I run my own fashion line now. Being an escort can be quite taxing. I figured to let the younger generation take a shot at it.”

“So is it true then,” the man next to Pitch leans over. “You two are together?”

“Yes, that is true,” Pitch answers. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. Will anyone buy it? What if we’re terrible liars? Why didn’t I think of this before?

“Oh, wonderful!” he says. Then to me he adds, “I’m Bornsburry Sunlap. I was a big supporter of you last year.”

I give him a forced smile that says, _Thanks for letting me live and making a mockery of my suffering._

“It’s true,” Pitch says. “Remember the antihistamine you needed? That was him.”

“Thank you,” I manage to say.

Bornsburry smiles back at me. “I’m sure this is all so much to take in. But don’t worry—Pitch takes good care of you, I’m sure.”

There’s thirty seconds until launch. I press against Pitch to avoid being touched by Romela’s pointy shoulder pads, and Pitch puts his arm around me.

The room is suddenly quiet. Tense. All our eyes lock on the massive set of televisions on the wall. The screens go black and then comes Janice’s voice: “Let the 141st Hunger Games begin!” The arena is revealed to us: a great golden horn—the Cornucopia—raised up on a massive wooden platform surrounded by a thick forest of trees. After a moment in which the camera pans across the Cornucopia to show the wealth of riches amassed in its open mouth and the various supplies scattered around it, twenty-four holes open up in the wooden platform about a hundred yards away from the Cornucopia, all equidistant apart. The tops of the tributes heads appear as they are raised up through the circles. Slowly we see them in entirety, dressed in shades of green and brown.

Now the television screens start showing us different angles at once so we can view multiple tributes. For a few seconds, I see Rosa, looking around at her surroundings. _Please, Rosa,_ I think. _Please. Just make it out of here alive._ I clasp my hands together and wait for the dreadful sound that will release them from their places. I can feel it. I can feel the immense fear that radiates through you when you stand there and wait to meet your inevitable death. You don’t know when you’ll die, or how. All you can pray is that it will be painless and not humiliating. Because you know that even though you could come home, those odds are greatly stacked against you. You have a 1 in 24 chance without the Careers, and your odds are so much lower when you factor in their skills. There’s this sharp, echoing fear that grows inside you as you wait and wait and wait and

_BONG!_

The tributes launch off their pedestals. I crane my neck and look at the different screens, searching for the one that shows even a hint of Rosa. There she is! She’s running into the fray, into the chaos. The camera leaves her as it shows almost all of the kids running towards the Cornucopia. Some stop partway to gather up as many supplies as the reach, while others go all the way to the mouth of the horn.

And then suddenly there is the first bloodcurdling scream as one of the Careers reaches the weapons and turns against the nearest non-Career tribute. The sword goes into the chest of the District 3 boy, but he doesn’t die right away. The District 4 girl withdraws her sword and stabs again. By the third strike, the District 3 boy is dead in a heap on the ground. There is little time to focus on it because the District 2 boy is going after the District 9 girl. And the District 4 girl is off after another one.

Some of the tributes have chosen to flee rather than to brave the chaos of the bloodbath, and briefly we are allowed to glimpse which ones have run. Green is one of them. He’s gone. So is the District 12 boy, Coal. They manage to escape along one of the many wooden walkways leading away from the Cornucopia.

And Rosa?

We see her run in and grab at a bag. She swings it on her back—the momentum nearly knocking her over. And then the District 1 boy charges after her. He has a sword in his hand held high above his head. But before he can bring down the blow, the District 5 girl is stabbing the District 1 boy in the neck. His blood sprays out across Rosa.

Rosa doesn’t wait for him to die. She grabs the sword out of his hand and then takes off with the District 5 girl, Nicola, and the two of them meet up with the District 8 girl, Taylor. And the three vanish into the walkways, leaving the bloodbath far behind.

With a gasp of relief, I bury my face in my hands. Both of our tributes have made it out of there.

“Wow, did you see that?” Janice Lovely asks off camera.

Caligula Klora gives a long, low whistle. “One of the Careers out in the bloodbath. Haven’t seen that in a couple years.”

But there is no more of Rosa or her alliance since the fight is still going on in the bloodbath. I lower my hands from my face and turn back to the television. The District 4 boy has killed both the District 5 male and the District 6 female. It takes several minutes for the District 10 girl to bleed out and die after the District 4 female gets distracted, but finally the girl’s death is added to the tally. The District 1 girl kills the District 11 male as he’s trying to grab some items behind the Cornucopia, and she laughs when he falls to the ground dead.

“This is _so_ refreshing!” the District 1 girl—Joy, her name is—whoops.

She trots back to the others who are finishing off the District 12 female and District 3 female.

Now the Cornucopia area is cleared. All that is left are the Careers, their supplies, and the bodies of nine dead teenagers. The camera takes a few minutes to pan around the clearing and focus on each of the twisted and ruined corpses of the fallen tributes. Blood soaks into the wooden boards around them. Their lifeless eyes stare out into the unknown. As the camera focuses on each one, you can hear the BOOM! of the cannon marking their death. Out in the rest of the arena, the tributes would be counting each cannon, not knowing who had fallen but understanding that each cannon meant they were one step closer to coming home.

“That was A-MAZING!” Janice gushes. One of the televisions now shows the Hunger Games announcer and the interviewer sitting together in the studio where they have been relatively quiet during the first few minutes of the Hunger Games. Now, however, they are alive with excitement.

“I _can’t_ believe it! Glitz Boyl of District 1 is _out_ of the Hunger Games in the bloodbath! Wow!” says Caligula. And I don’t think he’s acting—he looks pretty astonished. Most people will be. The woman next to me, Romela, grabs onto my arm as she watches. I try to pry her off, but I find that I can’t escape her hold.

I’m more astonished that somebody took one look at their newborn son and decided that “Glitz” was the best name they could possibly imagine.

“Yikes! Thinking about this all is giving me chills, Caligula,” says Janice. “That District 5 girl, Nicola, she’s one to watch out for.”

“You’re telling me, Janice,” says Caligula. “And what about the girl from District 4? Oceana? She got THREE kills today. Three!”

“Her district partner, Fjord, is right behind her,” Janice points out.

But now the announcers cut out as the cameras all return to the Cornucopia where the remaining five Careers are still panting with excitement and laughing about what they’d just experienced. As they begin to plan their next move, the room I’m currently in suddenly comes alive as everybody explodes. “I can’t believe what just happened!” and “Wow, that District 5 girl is certainly something!” and “District 4 is on fire! It’s definitely going to be their year!”

The conversations and chatter overlap each other, and the tension in the room finally breaks. The tension inside me, however, only mounts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick death tally:  
> \- D3M (bloodbath) by D4F  
> \- D9F (bloodbath) by D2M  
> \- D1M (bloodbath) by D5F  
> \- D5M (bloodbath) by D4M  
> \- D6F (bloodbath) by D4M  
> \- D10F (bloodbath) by D4F  
> \- D11M (bloodbath) by D1F  
> \- D12F (bloodbath) by D4F  
> \- D3F (bloodbath) by D2F


	26. Chapter 26

In normal circumstances, if I’m feeling like this, I would go outside and take a walk, or maybe even a run. Hell, I might even be able to barricade myself in my room and shout at everyone else to go away. But this is not normal circumstance, and I’m realizing just how poorly I can cope when I have no outlet to release my anxiety.

Romela is still next to me, but she’s engaged in a conversation with the person next to her. Their voices keep rising to shout over each other as they banter back and forth with excitement. On the other side, Bornsburry is chatting up Pitch. There’s a man and a woman behind me who are keeping track of the various kills like scores in a soccer match. It’s not just the names and districts they’re writing on their paper but the weaponry, time stamp, technique, and everything else. I think they’re filling in the blanks on pre-created notecards, which makes it even more horrendous. Somewhere else in the room, people are taking photographs of each other smiling and posing with their alcoholic drinks. They giggle, “it’s not too early for a drink, right?” and “let’s do one with us being sad” and that sort of shit.

I’m on my feet before I even realize it and I leave the room. I don’t know where I’m going, but it sure as hell isn’t back to the main party near the foyer. There must be hundreds of people in this mansion, and I’m not about to walk into the major throng of them. So I head down the direction opposite from where we had come. The hallway makes a turn, and slowly the sound of cheering and laughter dies down. I can still hear televisions playing and people talking as they watch, but it’s nothing like it was back there.

Pitch catches up to me.

“Hey,” he says. When I don’t answer, he grabs my arm and turns me around.

“What?!” I snap. I rip my arm away from him. My heart is beating so hard that I’m certain that everyone in this part of the house can hear it. How can Pitch even think over its quick tempo?

Pitch looks around, then he nods towards a room. I follow him inside. It’s empty, but there is no door that we can close behind us.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He watches my face, and then I find myself whimpering, “I can’t believe all this! We’re just expected to sit here and listen to them talk like that? They’re actually _excited_ , Pitch! They are _enjoying_ this! It’s disgusting and infuriating and it’s so damned animalistic that I can’t stomach it anymore!”

“I know,” he says. He looks exhausted. Of course he knows. He’s done this year after year after year. He makes a good show at it and he plays the part well, but ultimately he’s beat down. He’s grown used to the behavior of the Capitol citizens. Desensitized. And in a few years, I’ll be like that, too. I’ll be the one comforting a new tribute, telling him or her to just get over it because nothing ever changes and nobody will ever hold the Capitol accountable for their crimes.

I wipe away a tear, careful not to smudge my makeup that Isolde so carefully applied.

“How do you do it, Pitch? How do you all do?”

He clears his throat. “Just get through your first year.”

“Are you going to tell me it gets better after that?” I demand.

“Nope. But you get better at controlling yourself.”

That doesn’t help at all. I start to shake.

Pitch pulls me into a hug and I bury my face into his shoulder. Why is it that whenever he reaches out to comfort me, it actually works? Why is it that only his embrace relieves my pain?

Then a voice interrupts us, “Is everything okay?” and Pitch releases his hold on me. In an instant, the comfort I felt vanishes, and I’m on edge again. I glare at the woman who stands in the doorway.

“I’m just happy for my tribute,” I say to her.

And she smiles back at me. “Little Rosa is a fighter,” she agrees.

“C’mon,” Pitch says. And I know that we can’t stay in that room forever, but it would be pretty damned nice if we could just wait here until the party ends. That, however, would not reflect well on us. We step into the hallway and trail behind the woman, hanging back so that we aren’t following her too closely. Pitch whispers to me, “Good job.”

Doesn’t feel like a good job. I grumble in response.

We find Esther and the other District 8 mentor, Calico Smithers, in a room with a few other victors and many other people. But I push my way through until I can stand next to the younger mentor.

“Sorry I vanished. Calico wanted me to stay with her,” Esther apologizes. “But now there’s no reason for them to separate us since our tributes are together.”

Sure enough, the television is showing our tributes’ alliance. The tributes are sore and a little bruised, but overall they escaped the bloodbath unscathed. It’s a miracle.

And now I finally have a chance to see the arena. One of the televisions is showing it off in all its glory—though, of course, we are not shown everything. It’s only the places the tributes have found and some of the nearby locations to which they are en route that we are given. I remember that Esther told me that my monitoring device will give me a map once the bloodbath ends, but I don’t dare look right now. I can only imagine that the Capitolites will swarm me to get a good look, just in case there is something revealed on my little watch face that they haven’t seen yet on television.

Wooden walkways wind through large trees of all sorts. They must be a hundred feet in the air, but it’s difficult to tell because a thick fog swirls beneath the wooden floorboards. It’s hard to locate all of the walkways because the tree cover hides all of the twists and turns which, of course, is both a blessing and a curse. The tributes may be able to escape more easily, but they will never be certain that there isn’t someone right around the corner. Some walkways are narrow and others wide; some have rails and some don’t. Ladders and staircases lead up to various levels, though once again it’s hard to determine the number of levels since they are spread out and not stacked on top of each other like a building. This means that if someone were to jump down from a level, there’s no guarantee that there is a walkway underneath them—in fact, it appears that there most likely won’t be.

The trees themselves are familiar. Firs, red cedars, pines in various subspecies. Other trees, too; ones that aren’t coniferous. They all interlock together and it’s sometimes hard to distinguish between them. Although it’s beautiful, something about it isn’t quite natural. Perhaps it’s the proximity of the trees to each other—close enough at a high elevation to hide these walkways—and then I wonder if the walkways are actually much lower in elevation than they appear. Perhaps they are only a few feet off the ground. It’s a curious thought.

The boards on the walkways creek beneath the boots of the tributes, and right now, Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor are testing their weight on the platform, deciding where would be the best place to step. Rosa, as the lightest by far, is the quietest. But the other two eventually discover that if they keep to the edges, they’re almost as quiet as the twelve year old. Now Nicola leans against a railing and tries to look over the edge. For several seconds, she peers into the fog below. At last she pulls herself back and looks at the others.

“Can’t see the bottom,” she concludes. “Don’t know how far down it is. We could drop something and see.”

They look around themselves for something to drop, but there is nothing besides their bags—they each have one—and their weapons. At that point, Taylor seems to realize that the sword Rosa holds is comically big, because she swaps it out for her shorter sword. Rosa looks relieved.

The girls continue moving. The camera switches away to show more tributes. I keep an eye out for Green, but he’s not highlighted right now. I know that he’s alive because the “Cannon Count” at the bottom of the screen right underneath the time stamp is still the same as it was after the bloodbath. But it would still be nice to know where he is.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” comes the voice of a man. He appears right in our vision, blocking our view of the television. For once I think I’d rather watch the Hunger Games than stare at this guy. He’s beautiful and the makeup accentuates his beauty, but I don’t like the hunger with which he looks at myself and Esther.

“You’re blocking the television,” I say bluntly.

His eyebrows shoot up. Perfectly plucked and shaped eyebrows. Ugh.

“Why don’t we go to another room? Bigger television, fewer people.” He smiles at us.

How about no?

I look around for Pitch, not bothering to be discrete about it. He is currently talking with a couple dressed in matching turquoise suits. The man in front of me clears his throat, and I turn back to him.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he says to us. “My name is Quintus Laurentinus, and I’m a very big fan.”

I force a smile like I did for the last big fan I had. “Thanks,” I say. “But I think—”

“Come, come, don’t keep my friends waiting,” he says as he pushes Esther and me towards the door. I turn to look back for Pitch, but the man keeps pushing us forward until we are out the room and in the hallway. How do I get Pitch’s attention without making a scene? I want to make a scene—every fiber of my being screams for it—but I know that I can’t.

My parents warned me of stranger danger, but I don’t think anyone ever expected me to be in a situation like this. What do you do when you cannot escape your captor because the government will only punish you?

Quintus enlightens us about who he is and why he was one of the ones who received not just an invitation to the party—there are so many people here, I didn’t realize that it was by invite only—but to one of the private VIP sections. And wow, aren’t we just lucky to join him, he tells us. He has an arm around each of us, keeping us deliberately separated.

“That reminds me, Esther,” I say, interrupting the man mid-sentence. “We have to find Elijah right away.” I say innocently to the man, “He’s the third mentor in our tributes’ alliance.”

Quintus frowns a bit, but then says, “I’m sure you’ll find him skulking about soon enough. But in the meantime, let’s get ourselves acquainted.”

We end up in a bedroom upstairs. It’s not a sleeping area as much as it is an elaborate suite with its own sitting room that holds half a dozen people plus the three of us, and a separate bedroom and bathroom. There are couches built into the wall under the window forming a bit of an arc so that everyone can see the television against the wall. An avox dedicated to this room alone waits on the partygoers.

As soon as we walk in, the Capitolites get excited. Quintus introduces us all, but I can’t remember any of their names. I shoot a look at Esther who echoes it back, and then there is no time for further contemplation because Quintus is having us sit down on the couch. He sits me right next to him and fortunately Esther is allowed to sit on my other side. But his arm is around my shoulder and I don’t know what to do because my initial reaction is to scream at him or bite him and my secondary reaction is to run away and I’m not allowed to do either. So instead I take Esther’s hand in both of mine so that Quintus can’t figure out a way to hold my hand, and we watch the Hunger Games in an even more uncomfortable manner than I had thought possible. The Capitolites keep trying to get the avox to give us beverages—alcoholic, no doubt—but we keep declining. My mouth is parched, but I don’t want to ask for anything in case they manage to figure out a way to make water-flavored alcohol.

Right now, the camera focuses on the Careers. They are gathering up their supplies, divvying out the bags and weaponry, and making general plans. None of them are sad that their District 1 male was killed; they think that everyone is better off without him. I share their sentiment, but for different reasons.

Quintus’ hand—the one that’s not already around me—begins to stroke my exposed arm.

I start, and he looks at me.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “But the doctors haven’t yet resolved the weird rash. Makeup covers it up, but the medicines aren’t working.”

Quintus gives me a disgusted look and drops his hand away, but he still leaves his other arm wrapped around me.

It goes without saying that I much prefer it when it’s Pitch’s arm around me.

The televisions are now showing where all of the tributes are on the map. We also get to see live coverage of them. The Careers, no surprise, are still at the Cornucopia. Rosa and her alliance are about half an hour away, covering ground as quickly as they can to put distance between them. The District 6 male staggers through the arena by himself. There’s a large gash on his right arm that will, no doubt, get infected. Green and Coal are shown climbing into the trees. They don’t have any bags or weapons to slow them down, and they’re pretty fast. The District 8 male and District 9 male are both panicking and running around. It looks like the latter is heading right back towards the Cornucopia. The District 10 male and District 11 female appear to be in an alliance as they run as fast as they can away from the Cornucopia together.

There’s a lull in the excitement from the Hunger Games, but people are still chattering in the room. I hope the party is over. I really hope that it is over. Quintus’ hand goes to my thigh.

I stand up suddenly, pulling Esther to her feet.

“Since there’s a bit of a break, I need to use the restroom,” I announce to no one in particular.

“Please, use the one in here,” a woman says, motioning towards the bathroom in the suite. Damn, I had forgotten about that and had hoped I’d make a break out to the hallway. But I just thank the woman and Esther and I head into the restroom.

“Do you think this window opens?” I ask Esther as soon as the door closes.

I climb into the bathtub and start pressing on the window overlooking the spacious backyard. There are people out there, but I’m sure they’re all so absorbed in themselves that they would never notice.

“Before you do that, I want to let you know that Quintus Laurentinus is a very powerful man who has some influence over aspects of the Hunger Games,” Esther says as she joins me in the bathtub.

Of course. That’s why he gets his own VIP suite. Damnit.

“So I’m supposed to go back there and let him feel me up?” I snap.

Esther shrugs. “Will probably be me in a couple years,” she says.

I lean my head against the cool tiles. “How long before the party ends?” I ask. I glance at my monitoring device, but it will only tell me the time, not how long before a certain engagement comes to conclusion.

“An hour, maybe,” she says. “That’s officially. Normally what happens is that people get bored if the action isn’t super exciting and start leaving early to go to the next party. Or if things pick up, it could last another couple hours. But if that’s the case, you’ll be able to excuse yourself. It’s what I do.”

Alright. I can last another hour. I think. No, I know. Because it’s Rosa’s life on the line, not mine, and I can’t make a decision that will benefit me and end in her death. So I pause to make sure that my makeup still looks decent before I beckon Esther to follow me back to the suite’s sitting room where I take my place next to Quintus once more. He offers me a drink that I take but don’t even pretend to sip, and I suppress a cringe as his hand is once more on my leg.


	27. Chapter 27

Excitement in the arena has dwindled severely, and I’m afraid that the tributes will be punished for not being entertaining enough, but at least the party begins to break up. The Gamemakers know about the parties around the city, I’m sure, since some of their biggest patrons host and attend them. It would be in bad taste to send a Gamemaker event when people are transitioning from one party to another. So although I don’t know if Rosa will be safe from other tributes before I can get to another television, at least I know that they won’t torture her for being boring, at least for another few hours.

By the time we can leave, I’m pretty damned pissed. I’m pissed at the Hunger Games. I’m pissed at the Capitol for holding the Hunger Games. I’m pissed at whoever orchestrates and condones these parties. And I’m pissed that Quintus has had his hand on my thigh for so long that my leg’s sweating underneath my dress from the unwanted body heat. I’m even pissed at Pitch for turning his back for a minute and letting me get carted away by this psychopath. But in the end, I can’t do anything about it, and I know I should just be grateful that things didn’t get more physical than they did.

Quintus walks Esther and me to the door of the suite.

“Hate to see you ladies leave,” he says with a carnivorous smile.

“It was nice to meet you,” Esther says politely, and I manage a nod before pulling her down the hallway towards the staircase.

We’ve almost reached the top of the stairs before I turn and look back. With a jolt, I realize that I know Quintus by the way he stands there watching us: several days ago, he had stood poised just like that outside of the bookstore watching Pitch and I leave. I feel sick.

At the bottom of the staircase, we run into Pitch. He’s turning in a circle and craning his neck to find me.

“Pitch,” I say, and he turns around.

“Ah, there you are!” he says, relief washing over his face. He puts an arm around me, and I almost push away as I swear I can feel Quintus’ beastly touch against my skin, but I remember that I had told Pitch that I wouldn’t draw back from him. That would bust our cover.

“You guys have fun?” he asks.

“We got invited to a VIP suite,” I say.

“Oh? Whose?”

“A fine gentleman by the name of Quintus Laurentinus,” I say with mock politeness.

Pitch’s smile falters. He has trouble getting it back into place. “That’s . . . very nice. But it’s time to go to the next party,” he says. He wastes no time getting Esther and I out the door and into the sunlight. It’s bright out here, and I wish I had some sunglasses.

“Where to next?” I ask as we wait on the sidewalk for a cab. It’ll only take a minute, if that, for a cab to pick us up since there are so many people out here waiting to go on to the next party and the cabbies are swirling around like sharks picking people off and whisking them away.

“Let’s take a break. Esther, you want to come with us and get something to eat?” Pitch asks.

She grins. “I won’t be third wheeling, will I?”

I snort. “I think you were already third wheeling back there.”

Pitch’s body tenses. Guess he didn’t find that comment funny.

“Sure, I’ll come with you guys,” she says.

When the cab pulls up, the three of us pile into the back. Pitch gives the driver instructions and the drive begins.

Once more, I am treated to a view of the Capitol I never thought existed. We leave this neighborhood full of magnificent mansions and enter into a more industrialized area.

“This is the trendy part of town,” Pitch explains to me as I lean over him to look out the window. “People like the aesthetics.”

It looks like every image of District 8 I had ever seen, except cleaner and more inhabitable. Not that District 8 is entirely like this, I’m sure, but all of the footage they showed us in school focused on the factories and warehouses with the cramped living quarters nearby and the little shops squished in between. And when I went on my Victory Tour, there was very little of the district I was allowed to view, so of course they kept me near the stereotypical District 8 factories. Here people had turned the industrialization into a trend. There are townhouses and apartments inside of buildings that looked like they should be part of manufacturing. Clubs, bars, and dining have prominent, flashy signs to draw attention of passers-by and make them stand out from the blah bricks and metal infrastructure.

To my relief, we keep driving and leave the area altogether.

When we stop, we are in a parking lot surrounded by trees. It surprises me how much of the Capitol incorporates natural features. Perhaps it happened when they expanded, as Pitch was telling me. But he leads us out of the car, thanks the driver, and then we head towards the far side of the parking lot.

“Nature trail,” he tells us. “Not likely to be inhabited much right now.”

And it is indeed a nature trail. The trees give way and we’re in a sprawling meadow. Around the edges are more trees blocking, no doubt, whatever buildings are behind it to give an impression that one is really out in the wilderness. It’s fake to someone like myself or Pitch who knows what the real outdoors is like, but to a Capitolite who can’t tell the difference between a bush and a tree, this would be as good as it gets.

We buy lunch at a kiosk near the parking lot and find a picnic table to sit down after a short walk into the meadow. It’s a good thing it’s uninhabited because we’re out here in the open where anybody can see us.

“The next party starts in about two hours,” Pitch informs us as we settle onto the benches. He sits across from Esther and me. “There’s one after that, but it’ll be pretty easy to get out of that one as long as our tributes are still alive.”

“Is this what you do?” I ask Pitch. “Go from a horrible party to some random nature area and then to another party and then to another nature area, etc. etc. for all eternity?”

Pitch laughs. “Pretty much, yes. I like being outdoors. Gives things balance.”

“What about you, Esther?” I turn to her. “Do you do the same?”

She nibbles quietly on her sandwich. “I normally don’t go to parties. I tell people that my stomach hurts so I’m not required to go to them, unless they’re really important. Like today.”

Lucky. I wish I had an excuse like that. Towards the end of her Hunger Games, Esther was impaled through the stomach. Although the Capitol can fix any broken bone or laceration, there are some things that often come with side effects. Once they start replacing body parts or repairing serious organ damage, there can be lasting consequences. Which, in some cases, can be hyped up to get out of unwanted parties.

It _is_ nice out here, I decide as we eat our lunch in silence. Sure, it’s not 100% natural, but it’s better than nothing. If it weren’t for the monitoring devices that we’re constantly checking to make sure our tributes are still alive, I’d say that the lunch is enjoyable.

But as with all good things, they must come to an end.

Pitch’s monitoring device vibrates, and we all look at it intently.

“Oh, shit, it’s Green,” he says after a moment. He stands up. “He’s taken a major fall.”


	28. Chapter 28

“Is he alive?” I demand.

“How badly is he hurt?” Esther asks.

Pitch doesn’t answer for a minute. “He’s still alive. His stats are at 63%.”

I don’t know what that means, exactly, but neither of the other mentors is looking optimistic right now.

Pitch continues, “Unfortunately, he’s not conscious.”

“What do we do?” I ask. I stand up to get a better view of Pitch’s device. But he’s holding it at an angle as he reads the screen, so I end up getting no more information until Pitch gives it.

“I need to make a phone call,” he says absently before wandering away.

Esther and I watch as Pitch paces back and forth about twenty yards from us. He’s on the phone with someone—Terra from District 12, I think, based on bits of conversation that drift over to us—trying to figure out more information. He’s hunched over a little, alternating his attention between the monitoring device and the phone call. His pacing becomes more rapid as time passes. I feel so helpless.

“What does 63% mean?” I ask Esther.

Her eyes are still on Pitch. “It means that he has approximately 63% of his health left. That could mean that he has one bigger injury, or it could be a whole bunch of little ones. It’s not _bad_ per se, but it’s really early in the Hunger Games to be that low.”

Tributes’ health is monitored like the batteries in a cell phone. Except that batteries can be recharged, I think bitterly.

Esther keeps eating, so I keep eating. And we’re nearly finished by the time Pitch returns.

“Okay, good news and bad news,” he says as he sits down. “Green fell out of a tree and fortunately landed on a platform below. He’s injured—broken wrist, maybe a sprained ankle—but he’s alive.”

“Is that the good news or the bad news?” I ask.

“It’s . . . both.”

We finish our meals as quickly as we can, but then we’re left with an awkward amount of time before the next party. If we went back to the training center, we’d only have to leave right away to get to our next destination. And none of us are in a hurry to leave right now to go straight to the party. Walking is better than sitting, though, so we take a brisk stroll down the path.

The meadow stretches on either side of us. Summer flowers are growing, but there isn’t a great variety. At first I think I see a deer, but as we get closer and it doesn’t flee, I notice the stiffness of its limbs. It’s a mechanical deer, some sort of animatronic. But it raises its head at us and sniffs the wind like it’s real. I guess no living deer would want to come into this place. I get it. I don’t want to be in the Capitol, either. It wouldn’t surprise me if all of the living deer were corralled up and placed in a zoo, in a mock natural environment, in order for people to stare at them.

I hate the Capitol. I hate what they do to everything, and how they insist on controlling and micromanaging every aspect of our lives. My heart rate is rising, my breathing quickening. I clench my fists and try to let it go, as Pitch told me. There’s nothing I can do about it. The Capitol is going to kill Rosa and Green—or, rather, they will have someone else do it for them—and they’re forcing me to pursue a relationship with someone I’m not romantically attracted to. While at the same time giving rich people the “okay” to feel me up without permission. I struggle to control myself.

It’s not working.

The next thing I know, I’m bounding across the meadow and tackling the mechanical deer. It falls down underneath my weight, and I pin it to the ground where I proceed to beat it over and over again with my fists. I feel the fur tear away from the metal and the metal resist against my knuckles and my skin give way to the jagged shards that stick out of the mechanical corpse. But I’m still punching it until I reach over, grab the deer by the head, and twist it straight off the body with a great “pop!” It’s only the outer portion of the head with the fur and the antlers, but I fling it as far away as I can manage. Then I start to kick the deer’s mechanical head, all of the little wires and devices that make it “think,” and I don’t stop until I fall to the floor with exhaustion and begin to cry. And then for good measure, I give the body another kick which only manages to roll it over 45 degrees.

Pitch and Esther must’ve let me lay there for a good few minutes before they come over to me because I am completely out of tears and am only managing to produce a few gasping dry sobs. I try to hide my face with my bloodied arms and peer at the other mentors through the gap.

“You done?” Pitch asks.

“No!” I yell, but I don’t have the energy to do any more.

“C’mon,” he says as he hoists me to my feet.

I’m a mess. The blood from my torn hands is dripping down my arms and has smeared on the borrowed green dress. Leaves and bits of grass stick to my bare skin. I wipe snot from my nose and try to pretend that I didn’t.

“Stupid deer,” I say, because I can’t direct my anger towards what’s actually bothering me.

Esther pulls a wad of tissues out of her purse and begins to blot off my hands. Pitch adds in ice left over from his drink. Together they manage to clean off my hands well enough, though it doesn’t stop the bleeding.

“Hold these like this,” Esther says as she layers tissue on my knuckles. “Apply pressure. I’ll walk in front of you so you don’t draw attention.”

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Pitch says.

“I’m fine,” I mumble.

“No, you’re not. You probably need stitches.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be at a party?” I ask sharply.

“Not like that.”

“Tell everyone I came in theme.”

Pitch and Esther lead me back to the parking lot where we find a waiting cab. No one speaks as we get inside, and Pitch asks the driver to take us to the training center. I lean my face against the warm window of the glass and close my eyes.

Soon enough, we are back at the training center, and I climb out of the car after Esther and Pitch. I don’t want anyone to see me like this, but I know that it’s inevitable. At least the cameras are long gone. Instead of slouching along, I hold my head up and walk with as much confidence as I can muster inside and to the elevator. But once I’m back in the District 7 apartment, I deflate. Esther continues up to the 8th floor to freshen up, and she promises that she’ll be back as soon as possible.

Pitch doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. It’s clear enough as it is. But I find myself still wanting to talk about it and rant about it and just get it all off my chest. Instead I follow Pitch into his bedroom and then to the bathroom where he sits me down on a seat and starts to work on my hands in silence. I wince as he removes the tissues because the dried blood has affixed them to my skin. But I bite back the pain and make no complaints as he rinses my hands and begins to clean them with an antiseptic. The wounds are still bleeding, but there’s nothing that’s going to stop it but pressure. He applies ointment and bandages, winding wrap around my knuckles so that the dressing will stay in place.

At last, Pitch is finished. He sighs and touches my cheek gently for a brief second. “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

I do as I’m told and head to my room where I slip out of my green dress and into a navy blue one. I make sure that it covers as much skin as possible before I take time to briefly fix my makeup in the bathroom mirror.

We are going to be very late to the party. I hope this doesn’t reflect poorly on Pitch or Esther. Or our tributes. I’d never forgive myself if it did. But that thought doesn’t help the tension pulling inside of me. There’s one thing I do know: Unlike Pitch, I cannot oscillate between parties and nature, between Hunger Games and relaxation, between death and happiness. I don’t know how I’m going to manage to cope, but I will need to find my own way.


	29. Chapter 29

We arrive at the party an hour late. Everything is in full swing. Instead of a mansion, it’s in the penthouse of one of the fanciest apartments in the Capitol’s downtown sector.

“Don’t you dare leave me, even to go to the bathroom,” I hiss at Pitch as we approach the apartment. People stand out in the streets and I can see a few more mingling in the lobby. It’s probably way overcrowded upstairs.

I want to hold Esther’s hand again so she won’t be torn away, but I can’t. She fortunately found me dainty little gloves that match my dress, but they only hide the bandages, not miraculously heal me. It’s my own fault for the injuries, though I’m loathe to admit it.

“I won’t,” Pitch says.

We’re crowded into an elevator with several Capitol citizens. I don’t look at them; I just look straight ahead. The music gets louder as we ascend to the top floor of the apartment, and as soon as the doors open, we’re blasted with music, laughter, booming play-by-play of the Hunger Games, and non-stop talk. I glance at my monitoring device to make sure that Rosa is still listed at 99.4% as she was when she left the bloodbath.

Pitch leads us through the apartment, greeting people and introducing myself and Esther. Esther presses against me to make less room for people to walk between us. 

This party is different. There is still the same type of people who think that their mere presence is enough to light up the world, but overall, people leave us alone. The beauty of the monitoring devices is that if we start looking at them and ignore the first few prying questions, the Capitol citizens seem to take the hint that we are keeping an eye on our tributes. I still don’t want to be here, but it’s less humiliating and intrusive than the last party.

Pitch, Esther, and I find Isolde and Jericho, also a District 1 victor but not mentoring this year, sitting in a quieter room.

“Hammer is pretty angry about what happened to Glitz,” Isolde says as I sit down on the couch near her. “Stay away from him for a day or two if you can. He’s pretty damned pissed at Elijah, so if you come across him first, give him a warning.”

Right. Glitz was the District 1 male tribute who Elijah’s tribute killed.

The televisions show the Career pack. It’s getting later in the day, and they have decided not to hunt any more tributes until tomorrow. “One misstep,” says the District 2 male, “and we fall into oblivion.”

The other Careers agree with him, so they make themselves comfortable and settle in for the evening. There’s plenty to eat and drink, so they don’t worry about having to find dinner for the night.

Rosa and her alliance, on the other hand, recognize that they have limited resources. As the afternoon begins to wane and the light turns golden, the three of them find a spot tucked in between the trees. It’s an out-of-the-way platform that can be accessed by a short ladder on one side and a rope swing on the other. Where the rope swing leads to, we aren’t told.

The three of them begin to unload their bags. All of them are generously loaded, which means that there will be few resources in the arena.

Taylor ends up with night vision goggles, rope, heat-reflective blankets, a half-gallon jug of water, and two MREs. Nicola has a tarp, iodine tablets, bird seed, three energy bars, two half-gallon jugs of water, gloves, sunscreen, and chapstick. Rosa opens up her bag to reveal dried meat, a half-gallon of water, a bottle of oil, healing ointment, strong pain medication, bandages, and a flashlight. It’s clear that Rosa has the best spoils, but then the three of them end up sharing some of their stuff to even things out. Nicola gives them each some iodine tablets, and Rosa gives her some of the bandages in return. Nicola takes one of Taylor’s heat-reflective blankets. Taylor swaps an MRE for some of Rosa’s dried meat.

There’s no way to make a fire out here without risking burning the planks or catching the trees on fire, but it looks like it’s getting a bit chilly. Nicola says she will take the first watch and hands Rosa her blanket. Rosa snuggles up next to Taylor. But it’s still some time before they go to sleep.

They show some of the other non-Careers next, and it takes a few moments until we get to see Green again. While I was freshening up in the training center bathroom, Green had regained consciousness. Now it appears that he’s back to normal, as talkative as ever. However, he doesn’t know what to do with his broken wrist and ends up just letting it hang there. It’s painful, and he winces every now and again. Coal is still bounding around the trees, and Green limps along on adjacent walkways to keep from being left behind. Neither kid is being particularly watchful, but fortunately for them, the Careers haven’t started hunting yet.

My monitoring device dings, and my heartrate accelerates. Is Rosa injured? Dead? But to my surprise, it’s a notification that money has been transferred into Rosa’s sponsorship bank. From one Quintus Laurentinus. It’s a fair sum, too. On the first day in the Hunger Games, it’s enough to buy several high-quality supplies. Give it a few days, however, and we’ll be lucky if it can get a bit of bread.

“Oh, you’re lucky,” Esther starts until I show her the display and she reads who the gift came from. That shuts her up pretty quickly.

I don’t show Pitch. He doesn’t need to know right now. It’s bad enough that his tribute has hurt himself unnecessarily on the first day.

It looks like nothing else is going to be happening tonight. Normally the Careers will venture out into the darkness and try to kill as many people as they can, but given their more conservative approach, there will not be anyone instigating murder until dawn comes. And since it’s the first day, it’s still unlikely that a Gamemaker event will happen. People will be placing bets and giving donations—I’ve heard more than a couple of pings as various mentors receive money in their tributes’ banks—so a big event would greatly upset the process.

It’s a relief when Pitch tells us it’s time to go back to the training center. On the way, he calls a doctor to come look at my hands. I glance down to where blood is seeping out from underneath the gloves, and I wipe the bright red away on the dark blue of my dress.


	30. Chapter 30

_The District 10 girl cries long into the night. She had been bitten by something in the hedge maze and managed to make it out before collapsing onto the ground. But it’s been hours now, and she hasn’t stopped. Sometimes the cries ebb only to pick up again when the wind is just right and blows her tormented screams in my direction. How this hasn’t alerted every Career in the arena is beyond me. There’s only two possibilities I can see: 1) the Careers are too far away or distracted with their own issues, or 2) they are hiding in wait for someone to come see what all the commotion is about._

_I give in. The girl can’t keep on like this._

_Heaving myself off the wall—my favorite place the past three nights—I head over in the direction of the cries. As I approach, I see the District 10 girl curled up in pain. Moonlight illuminates her thin frame, and she is missing an arm entirely. There is a sloppy makeshift tourniquet keeping her from bleeding out. A great amount of gore is exposed on her side where something had bitten her—something big enough to take off a limb and remove a chunk from her. When I reach her and stand over her, I see she is completely delirious with fever and pain. It would be a mercy to kill her. I’m contemplating it when I hear footsteps._

_In a split second, I’m forced with a decision: kill this girl to put her (and my ears) out of misery at risk of facing a new threat, or run away and hide so that I won’t be exposed?_

_In the end, I run and hide, allowing the wails to cover my hasty retreat. I don’t go all the way back to my wall. I drop into bushes about fifty feet from the tribute._

_Sure enough, the District 1 female and District 4 male appear and stare down at the District 10 female like I had done moments ago. I let out a breath. I made the right decision._

_“What do you think did this?” asks the District 1 female._

_“Hell if I know. But I’ll show you how I’ll handle it,” replies the District 4 male. A sword falls, and then the District 10 girl is silent. Up in the sky, the cannon booms._

_After a long moment, the District 1 female says, “Four left.”_

_Yes, she’s right. The District 8 male died yesterday, leaving only the District 6 male, myself, and the two standing before me. Three more people dead, and I will be on my way home._

_The two Careers spend the rest of the night right there in the open, forcing me to keep in my hiding place. I’d love to go up and kill them in the middle of their sleep—neither of them bothers keeping watching—but I know that one false move and I’ll be dead. If I hesitate for even a second, it’ll give them the chance to pounce on me. So I curl up with my knees to my chest and fall into a restless sleep._

_In the morning, I’m woken by a strong wind that whips through my hair. There’s a strong scent of flowers in the wind, but it’s sickly and demented. I cough as the smell grows stronger. This is it. The Gamemakers are trying to tell us something. This is the final showdown._

When I wake up, I’m too tired to think about anything at all. But slowly I remember a myriad of ever-present dangers looming in my immediate future. Rosa. The Hunger Games. A generous gift from an unwanted admirer. My obligations to try to keep somebody alive.

I check my monitoring device to make sure that Rosa has made it through the night. She has. Another couple minutes and I’ve checked on all of the other tributes, too. Everyone who left the bloodbath is alive right this moment. There were no additional injuries since I went to sleep. Groaning, I sit up in bed and look around my room. It’s become so familiar to me in the past week that I can’t imagine being anywhere else, and I know that as soon as I step into the corridor, I’ll expect to see Green and Rosa flitting about as they prepare for their day. It won’t happen. I may never see them again.

The tributes’ bedrooms are open and bare. All decoration has been stripped away, the mattresses removed, the wardrobes open and empty. I linger outside of Rosa’s room for a few minutes. I can’t do this to myself. I push away from the doorway and head toward the dining room.

At very least, I’m happy that Lala is gone. I’m sure I’ll run into her again at some point, but she has no need to be in the apartment anymore.

The avoxes serve me breakfast. I eat slowly, and when I’m finished, I knock on Pitch’s door. There’s no answer, so I head to the mentor room myself.

The chaos of the last week is gone, and the training center is remarkably empty. And yet despite the loneliness aching inside me, I don’t really feel _alone_. I’m haunted by the tributes, the escorts, the prep team members, and the stylists who were taking up so much energy and have now vanished. This graveyard is now occupied by a few mentors and a host of avoxes, the latter of whom do their best to stay out of the way.

When I reach the mentor room, I find that it’s mostly occupied. There are some computer stations that are vacant—neither District 3 mentor is there, for example. Hammer still sits next to Isolde despite the fact that his tribute is completely out. I flop down in my chair next to Pitch.

“Morning,” he says.

I grunt in reply.

“Tributes are starting to wake up for the day,” he informs me.

The computer screen comes to life when I touch it with my finger. It shows me Rosa’s school picture and her current stats. Now there is also information such as her alliance members, what items she has on her, and what injuries she’s sustained (mostly a few sore muscles, but she is still at the same health percent as last night). Likelihood to be victor: 4%. Pitch was right. It went up. Used to be 0% before the training scores were released.

I minimize her stats and instead tune into cameras that are watching her. Unlike when we watched the Hunger Games on televisions yesterday, we can now choose what cameras to view. We can also see the map itself. Most of it is still blacked out. Little flags with numbers such as “D7F” mark where each tribute is located. When I click on the flag, it reveals a panel that has the tribute’s stats. I can also view the other tributes through cameras, too. In a way, this makes me feel more comfortable and in control than anything else has since I woke up last week for the reaping. I’m not just going off of whatever information the news station is broadcasting for the public; I can really understand my tribute on my own terms, or as much as this system allows.

For the next hour, I watch Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor prepare for the day. They eat breakfast and discuss what direction they’d like to go in. None of them seem to be in bad shape despite their circumstance, which is more than I can say for my own first morning in the arena. Even Nicola, who already has a kill under her belt, doesn’t seem too bothered by it. I don’t know how she does it.

Esther arrives and sits in the chair next to me. She has a cup of coffee in each hand. One of them she places in my drink holder.

“Thanks,” I say. And really. I forgot what the wonders of coffee could do. Today, however, I make sure to sip and savor it.

“How’s our tributes?” she asks.

“They are going northeast. All of them are healthy and in good spirits,” I report.

“Good, because the Careers are starting to move.” Esther points towards three flags on the map. They show the District 1 female, District 2 male, and District 4 female all moving away from the Cornucopia. Fortunately, they are travelling slightly northwest, leaving hope that they will miss our alliance entirely. The other two Careers remain behind at the Cornucopia.

I keep the map in the corner of my screen but turn the main panels back to Rosa’s alliance.

“How’re your hands?” Esther asks.

I look down at the bandages wrapped around my knuckles. “Doctor said to keep them clean and not punch things. The suture strips will dissolve on their own when the skin is healed enough.”

The good thing about being here in this mentor room is that I don’t have to pretend quite so much. I don’t have to pretend that I am not injured, and I don’t have to pretend to be attracted to Pitch. It makes this place more comfortable than I thought it would be, like a haven away from the rest of the world.

There are fifteen tributes remaining. I click on the flag for Green, and then chose a nearby camera. He and his ally are both trying to climb trees again, even though it’s very clear that Green is not in climbing condition. I remember what Green said when we were talking about strengths and weaknesses; he told us he knew how to climb except for when it got wet. And I’m sure the fog has made those trees pretty wet. Pitch is slumped back in his chair, watching the same scene from a different angle.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mutters without tearing his eyes away. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is there something in the trees that they see as beneficial?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Absolutely no idea. I think they’re just climbing trees simply to climb trees.”

Coal manages to climb much higher than Green. He turns around and shouts, “What’s the matter? District 7 doesn’t have any trees?”

“Shut up, Coal!” Green grimaces. He’s panting with the effort.

“Hey, man, if this alliance is going to work out, you gotta be able to climb,” Coal shouts down at him.

“I _know_ that, Coal!”

Oh, they’re all doomed, I think. Green is going to slip and fall if he doesn’t get his feet back on the platform. But if he gives up, Coal is just going to leave him behind. Though at this point, I wonder if there’s really a problem with the alliance falling apart if Coal doesn’t care that Green is injured. Sweat beads on Green’s forehead as he tries to climb a little higher, a little faster.

Coal scuttles up higher into the tree. “Man, you can see everything from here!”

Green cranes his neck to peer up at Coal. “Really? Wait for me!”

“I’m just going to—”

A branch snaps underneath Coal’s hand, and the tribute scrambles for purchase against the tree. His fingernails try to dig into the bark, but it’s no use. He’s falling. Screaming and falling. He tries to grab onto Green in passing, but Green presses himself against the bark of the tree just in time. Coal falls, hits the railing of the walkway with a sickening _SNAP_ and then tumbles out of sight and into the fog below.

Moments later, a cannon booms.

“Well, I’m out,” Terra announces loudly as she stands up, peels off her monitoring device, and throws it on the chair. “Damned kids.”

My mouth just hangs open as I turn back to the screen. Did no one else see that kid break his back on the walkway? Or realize that he just fell into great nothingness? I turn to Pitch. He’s staring hard at the screen, chewing absently in his lower lip as he watches Green carefully.

Green holds onto the tree for dear life. For the first time since I’ve met him, the kid is speechless. Minutes past. At long last, he slowly climbs back down and steps onto the walkway. Once his feet are on the solid planks, he walks to the railing, leans over it, and stares as though he might see Coal’s corpse somewhere in the haze. But there’s nothing.

“Shoot,” he says.

After a few minutes, he begins walking. It’s clear that he doesn’t really have a destination. But along the way he stops and picks up a few little acorns, a couple sticks, a long bit of bark that has fallen on the walkway. I’m not certain what he’s doing. It’s like he’s just a squirrel collecting little bits of the trees to hide later.

The hours go by without anything of great importance happen. There are conversations between tributes, a few get turned around and end up travelling the same path over and over, a couple are crying because they’re homesick, another one keeps vomiting over the railing. While I’m glad that there isn’t anything more tense and demanding, I find watching this stuff very mundane. I know that the viewers at home would be kept entertained with exciting interviews and television personalities as the events of yesterday’s bloodbath and today’s loss of the District 12 male would be played over and over.

“Let’s take a break,” Pitch says as he stretches.

Sure. I’ve been doing nothing but sit in this chair for hours on end. Esther declines and opts to stay in her chair to watch the alliance for us. I look around for the third party of our alliance—Elijah—and find him sitting in his District 5 chair with headphones on. At first I think he’s listening to music, and then I realize that he probably has someone narrating the action for him, probably in far more detail than the recaps done on TV.

We head into the lounge, but I don’t feel like sitting. I’ve been sitting all day. As we make our way to the buffet table, Pitch stops and points to the punching bag in the corner.

“Next time you feel like punching something, use that. Hurts a lot less.”

I scowl. “Thanks.”


	31. Chapter 31

It’s the third day of the Hunger Games, and I’m in the mentor room early this time because I had trouble sleeping. Every couple hours, I’d wake up and check my watch, convinced that I had felt the vibration that notified you of your tribute’s injury or death. Instead, Rosa’s health stats are better than they were before.

If things don’t get interesting, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gamemakers throw things at them. The Careers have been quite lazy, never trying to pursue anyone during the night and always returning to the Cornucopia. They managed to kill the District 9 male yesterday before retiring, but that was it.

I switch over to watch Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor. The three of them are walking in single file down the walkway. Their alliance had made it farther than Elijah thought it would. And I’m hoping that I’m wrong, too. I’ve grown used to seeing the three of them together, and it lulls me into a false sense of security that everything is okay.

However, a notification suddenly pops up on my computer, as it does on Pitch’s. I lean in to read it.

JUNIPER SADIK

YOU ARE SCHEDULED FOR A Q & A SESSION TONIGHT AT 8:30 PM.

PLEASE BE AT THE MEZZANINE OF THE TRAINING CENTER AT 8:15 PM.

YOU ARE EXCUSED FROM THIS EVENT ONLY IF YOUR TRIBUTE IS IN CRITICAL CONDITION ( < 20 % ) OR IS IN IMMEDIATE DANGER.

I turn and look at Pitch.

“What’s that mean?” I ask him. The reporter the other day wanted to do Q&A, but Pitch had declined at the time. This was definitely not something we were going to be able to avoid.

“Seems early in the Hunger Games for this, but . . . sometimes the mentors of the tributes get interviewed,” he says as he minimizes his notice. An image of Green trying to eat pine needles appears. “Normally they wait til the numbers have dwindled down a bit.”

I look around to see if anyone else has been invited. To my relief, I see that Lady of District 10 and Rikuto of District 6 are also reading similar notices. I wonder why they chose this group of mentors. Why didn’t they choose, say, myself, Esther, and Elijah? Or maybe the mentors of the Career tributes.

It’s easy to get distracted with the goings-on of the Hunger Games. Esther takes a break for a few hours when I promise to notify her as soon as anything happens, and when she returns, I take my own break. It doesn’t occur to me until I stand up and head into the lounge that I’ve been sitting in front of the computer for way longer than I thought. It’s nearly 5:00 PM.

As it turns out, the couches all transform into beds if you pull out the bottom of them. It’s really weird to see something that was a soft leather couch suddenly turn into a completely different piece of furniture. This would explain why there are so many couches. Now a few of the couches are beds where people sleep, but the rest have been returned to their normal couch state by one of the avoxes.

I throw myself onto a couch and pull my book out of my pocket. It’s almost 8:00 PM when Pitch comes and gets me.

Pitch and I freshened up in the apartment before going down to the mezzanine. There’s not much going on here, but there’s quite a hubbub coming from outdoors. People—crowds of them—wait eagerly for our arrival. One of the training center coordinators meets us when we arrive, and we only have to wait a couple of minutes for Lady and Rikuto to join us. Then we are marched outside where they have set up a platform with a long table and four chairs. I try not to look out into the crowd that spans in front of us for blocks. The bright lights help me pretend that they’re not there.

The coordinator seats us in numerical order so that Rikuto and Lady are on either end and Pitch and I are in the middle. There is a table near ours at an angle so that whoever sits there can face us and not have his or her back towards the crowd.

Sure enough, Pythia Todner, the reporter we met a couple days ago, walks up and sits down in that seat.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us today for the 141st Hunger Game’s first Q & A session!” Pythia announces. The crowd cheers and it takes nearly a full minute for it all to settle down.

“Today with us, we have four of our mentors. Rikuto Cord of District 6, Pitch Yassen and Juniper Sadik of District 7, and Lady McClure of District 10. Let’s give them a big welcome!”

More cheering. More time wasted. I try to avoid looking down at my monitoring device to check my tribute.

Pythia turns to us. “You four were brought here today because you have the only still-living tributes that were deemed unlikely to survive the bloodbath, and yet they’re all here on Day 3! It’s quite amazing, really.”

Yes, I’m amazed. Totally. I grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists regardless of the pain that washes across my knuckles. I can’t believe that this is a _thing_ right now. How disgusting and humiliating.

Pitch’s hand finds mine. He unclasps my fingers takes ahold of my hand. Our fingers are interlocked and I can’t form a fist. Damnit.

“Rikuto, let’s start with you, honey,” Pythia says. She clears her throat, settles in, and then begins: “Your tribute only received a training score of 4 and was rated only at 22% chances of survival out of the bloodbath. How did he do it?”

Rikuto answers in what I can only say is an absolutely graceful manner. “Helmut can’t be summed up by pure numbers, which makes rating him extremely challenging. Although numerical systems are used because it’s the most objective way to compare tributes, it doesn’t allow for various character traits and flaws. In Helmut’s case, he has natural survival instincts that can’t be measured by the number of spears you can throw or how well you can build a fire without material.”

How the hell does one actually answer a question like that? I’m impressed by Rikuto’s response.

Pythia continues, “He’s pretty injured. Can you tell us about that wound?”

“Helmut has a laceration on his right forearm. It appears to be about six inches long and fairly deep,” he says calmly. “However, he managed to use local plants to keep the wound from being infected and to cover it to avoid further contamination.”

“It sound like Helmut really knows his stuff,” Pythia praises him. “Do you think he’ll make it to the top eight?”

“Yes.”

“Any final words, Rikuto?”

“It has been a pleasure working with Helmut over the past week, and I hope that once he’s back in the Capitol, you all will have an opportunity meet him yourself. His sense of humor is unparalleled, as you saw in the interview, and he lights up any room he enters. He’s a good guy with a good head on his shoulders.”

Shoot. Is this the stuff we have to talk about our tributes? I wasn’t prepared for this.

Pitch squeezes my hand sharply. I almost yelp from the pain in my knuckles.

Pythia turns to Pitch and me.

“We meet again!” she says. Then she turns to the audience and for their benefit, says to them, “I had the pleasure of meeting Pitch and Juniper the other day when they were out on a date. It’s such a wonderful thing to see that they were able to join us today.”

Then she says to us, “Both of your tributes were given very low likelihoods of surviving the bloodbath. Juniper, yours had a 7%, and Pitch, yours was at 3%. Can you comment on their narrow escapes from the initial fight? Pitch, you first, honey.”

“Green knew that he didn’t have much of a chance in direct combat against a well-armed Career pack,” Pitch says. I notice how he doesn’t say that Green had no chance at all. He words it in a manner that people wouldn’t give up on his tribute right here and now. “He knows his weaknesses, and he used his strengths appropriately.”

“But that left him without any supplies, didn’t it?” Pythia asks.

“Yes, it did,” Pitch says. “But if he had stopped for supplies, he would have been killed. He knows that he can acquire supplies elsewhere in the arena and has already been working on crafting to get what he needs.”

“He’s a keen kid,” Pythia says. Then she turns to me. “Juniper?”

“Well, uhm, Rosa has the benefit of an alliance that was established in the training center,” I say. “This allowed her to grab supplies—and a weapon—right away.”

“Yes, that was a very exciting moment after Nicola of District 5 killed Glitz of District 1, wasn’t it? The way Rosa jumped in there and grabbed that sword! Ooh-ooh! It was a great moment to watch!” Pythia can’t control her enthusiasm. “Not only was I amazed that Glitz was out, but I couldn’t believe the audacity of little Rosa.”

“She’s very . . . spirited,” I offer.

Damn, I’m not helping her much. I’m really not helping her at all.

I clear my throat. “As she said during the interviews—she’s a force to be reckoned with. I’m afraid I can’t really say more without spoiling anything.”

Pythia’s excitement only grows, and I’m not sure if she’ll be able to stay in her seat, she’s so overwhelmed with emotion. But she finally calms herself enough to say, “I just can’t _wait_ to see what Rosa has in store for us!”

Then she turns to District 10 mentor, and says, “Lady, your tribute had an 18% likelihood of getting out of the Bloodbath, and the next thing we know he’s running off with the District 11 girl! What was with that?”

Lady sits up straighter. “It was entirely impromptu. Phil has a knack for assessing a situation and deciding right then and there what he should do,” she says calmly. “His ability to plan in a pinch is really phenomenal—one of the most amazing things I’ve seen in years.”

“Why did he choose the District 11 girl?” Pythia asks.

“I don’t think I should share too much—we’ll let it play out on its own—but he saw in her some skills he admired. I asked him if he wanted to ally with her right away, but he said that he’d play it by ear. I think the two will complement each other in many ways.”

“I really can’t wait to see them in action. Already they have some of the best items from the Cornucopia—even better than what the Careers have.”

“Yes. They’re very lucky in that regard, for which I’m thankful. Items can make or break one’s success in the arena,” Lady says.

Pythia pauses for a moment and shuffles through some papers on her desk. Then she looks back up at the four of us and says, “I have a few more questions. Lady and Rikuto, I hope you forgive me if they’re not aimed at you—”

Oh shit.

“—But for my District 7 mentors, there have been a few rumors about you going around, which I’m sure you’re entirely aware of. Do you think that your relationship with each other has been detrimental to your jobs as mentors?”

“If anything, I think it’s helped,” Pitch answers. “I’ve been lucky to be so close with Juniper this Hunger Games. She really brings great insight into the experience, and the tributes—both tributes—have benefited from it.”

The crowd gives a big nauseating, _Awwwww!_

“So it hasn’t cut into your time with your tributes?” Pythia prods.

“Absolutely not,” Pitch says. “We follow the same routines and time schedules that myself and other District 7 mentors have done for years. Our job is to mentor the tributes, and that is by far our priority.”

What did Pitch say earlier? We’d just tell everyone _work first and inappropriate touching later_?

Pythia turns to me. “This is all so new to you, Juniper. Coming here for your first year as victor, being given the honor of the mentor role, and then falling in love with your fellow victor?” She sighs dreamily. “It must all be so exciting to you. How are you handling it?”

“Yeah . . .” I say. Pitch is right: I don’t know how to lie. But I find myself trying anyhow. “Pitch is showing me the ropes. And the people around here are so . . . supportive.”

I take a deep breath and try again. I need to be at least moderately convincing and not look like Pitch is squeezing my hand under the table and popping the sutures off my wounds.

“We hadn’t wanted to make our relationship public because we didn’t want people to think it distracted us from our job. I’m just glad that we don’t have to hide it anymore.” Ugh.

There. Is that enough? The audience sure seems to be enjoying it. Though whether they believe the romance we’re selling or they are enjoying watching me writhe in misery, it’s unclear.

“It must be a dream come true,” Pythia says.

Does she realize that most of my dreams these days are nightmares? I just smile at her as naturally as I can manage. She seems to buy it, or at least not call me out on my bullshit.

“It wasn’t something that either of us were prepared for,” Pitch says. “It just kind of . . . happened. Fortunately we’re both dedicated to seeing our tributes through.”

She smiles at the two of us, and then she says, “You two are just so sweet together. I think we’ll look forward to more Q&As with you as the Hunger Games progress. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a hand to our four mentors who have taken time out of their busy schedules to come participate in our Q&A!”

The crowd goes wild again. We leave to the sound of their applause.


	32. Chapter 32

As soon as we get back to the mentor room, everyone turns and stares at us.

Isolde makes a gagging noise. “Guys, that was so over-the-top,” she says.

Pitch flips her off. Some of the other mentors start making comments, but Pitch just begins to lead me back to our chairs.

“I need to use the restroom,” I say to him. Then to Isolde: “Am I still allowed to go into the bathroom and scream?”

“Oh, have at it,” she says, gesturing towards the door.

It’s only Day 3 of the Hunger Games and I’m already standing in one of the stalls of the women’s bathroom screaming at the top of my lungs. Just this long, piercing “AHHHHHHHHHHH!” with only occasional breaks to catch my breath. At last I’ve think I’ve worked it out of my system and I force myself to go back to my computer station. My tribute needs me.

I don’t know if the bathroom is soundproof, and I don’t care. I receive a few looks as I return to my seat, but I ignore them and sit down next to Pitch.

“Everything is going just fine here,” Esther updates me when I enter back into the system. “They set a snare and caught two squirrels, but without a way to light a fire, it’s been a bit challenging. Finally they managed to use the heater from one of the MREs to boil water and kind of cook it. Didn’t really get cooked through because it was too much meat for the heater.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on things,” I say.

She shrugs. “Would rather be here than out there,” she admits.

I groan. “Did you watch it, too? Was it horrible?”

“No more horrible than they made it to be. You did fine. Pitch did fine. Lady and Rikuto did fine for their bits, too.”

“Such a stupid diversion,” I mutter.

“Better we provide entertainment than they decide to send muttations and events to the tributes,” Pitch says, his eyes still on the screen.

I hadn’t even thought of that. Things in the arena have been slow lately. I feel selfish for complaining about the interview now.

“Oh, Juniper, your hand is bleeding.” Esther points to my knuckles. A speck of blood has soaked through the bandage.

“That’s where Pitch was squeezing my hand to keep me from flipping out on the interviewer,” I mutter.

“Couldn’t let you commit homicide on television,” Elijah says as he ambles over. “Or, should I say, Couldn’t let you commit homicide against one of the ‘Chosen Elite’ on television?”

“Damnit, Elijah, you need to stop that crap,” Pitch says.

“Or what? They’re going to take something from me? Hope they don’t take my vision,” he snarks. But he turns towards Esther and myself and says, “Listen, they’re going to make themselves sick eating raw meat. There’s a flameless heat source that will actually cook it properly that we can purchase if we have enough money.”

“Plenty of tributes eat raw meat,” Esther says.

“Yes, but so far we don’t see a way to make fires. This is different from the occasional raw dinner. Squirrels are hosts to parasites and, like most meats, carry bacteria. Every time they eat something raw, they’re going to get a higher chance of illness. And that’s not even taking into consideration rabies and mad cow disease.”

I look from Elijah to Esther and back. I don’t actually know anything about eating raw meat. I’ve only eaten it cooked.

“Fine,” Esther says. “Let’s consult the book.”

Elijah snorts but doesn’t object. Esther disappears into the lounge for a moment and returns with a big volume that she sets on her lap when she sits back down again. After scanning the index for a minute, she flips to a page and reads it quietly to herself.

“Okay,” she says. “I see your point.”

“What’s that book?” I ask, lifting up the cover so I can read the title.

_Outdoor Survival, Volume XIII._

“It’s pretty much the handbook to settle most disputes,” Esther explains. Then, after a moment, “It gets used quite frequently.”

Right, so raw squirrels can kill. I turn to my computer and flip open the bank. There is, indeed, a flameless cooker in the store, but currently it’s going for quite a bit of money. Still, if we wait too long, it’s going to just get more and more expensive.

“How much does it cost?” Elijah asks.

“About $9,000,” I say. The price is ridiculous. But then again, there is a plate of stew going for over $500. I’ve never known how much things cost in the Hunger Games, only that it increases drastically with each passing day.

“Geeze,” Elijah says. “I swear that’s more expensive than when I looked an hour ago.”

“So how does this work? Do we each contribute an equal amount?” I ask.

Pitch has turned around and is watching us. Or, rather, watching me. Making sure that I’m not going to get screwed over, most likely.

“That would be great if I have $3,000,” Esther said. “But currently my tribute only has $750.”

“Mine has $2,500 for making that kill,” Elijah says.

“Is that the price to kill someone?” I ask.

Elijah grins. “Now you’re seeing how this works.”

“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, I can make up the difference. That means it belongs about 2/3 to Rosa. How—again, hypothetically—would that benefit her when it would take money away from other things I could be sending her? I guess it seems like she’d be doing the entire project for the group.”

Elijah cocks his head. “How exactly would you manage to come across nearly $6,000?”

“It’s all just hypothetical,” I say.

“Then why are we talking about it?” he asks. He knows, of course, that I really do have that money in my bank. But after finding out that someone who took out one of the most powerful contenders only got $2,500 in sponsorships, I realize how much money Quintus Whatshisface had given me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious.

“Elijah and I will try to drum up some sponsors and pay you back,” Esther says. “Well, not pay you back directly, but buy all three tributes something from our wallets.”

Well. I’m not sure how much better of a deal I can make. I want to do what’s best for Rosa, and to do that, I need to be a team player even if it doesn’t benefit us in the immediate future. So I turn back to my computer and submit my $5,750 to contribute to the heater. The other two contribute their money, and within moments, the transaction is done. Elijah heads back to his computer and Esther and I turn to ours.

I see out of the corner of my eye a hint of a smile on Pitch’s lips.

It takes about ten minutes for the parachute to fall. It drifts down and lands in the platform on which the three girls currently sit. They get excited at the parachute and immediately open it up. The two older girls start sorting out how it works. Rosa picks up the discarded wrapper from the parachute—the parachute itself and the fabric that was wrapped around the cooker—and slips it into her pocket.


	33. Chapter 33

_The smell of flowers grows sharper, and the wind only becomes stronger. My hair flutters around my face, and I take a moment to untie my hair, gather up the loose wisps, and tie it all back down again. I don’t know what the Gamemakers are going to give us today, but I know that today will be the final episode in the 140 th Hunger Games._

_I move to escape the strong smells not because I can’t stand them anymore but because I know that if I don’t move, the Gamemakers will decide that there is something more deadly they can release on me to go in the direction they desire. My hatchet is in my hands. I carry my backpack on my back, but I doubt I’ll need it anymore after this. I follow the wind’s push and see that we are being lead to a large, perfect lawn so profoundly green and lush that it seems surreal. A row of perfectly symmetrical rocks line the edges, and beyond that, bushes blooming with flowers. Trees, too; they overhang the clearing, leaves fluttering in the breeze. The wind dies as I approach the lawn._

_The District 6 male is already there. The Careers are coming from the west, and I am approaching from the south._

_The District 1 girl runs screaming at the District 6 male. But he hasn’t made it to the final showdown for no reason. Their swords clash together as they battle. Clang! Clang! I don’t have time to admire it because the District 4 boy is charging my direction. He’s a great beast of a creature, and he’s covering ground fast. I take off running, launch myself over the rocks, and clamber up into a tree. But then the tree shakes with an unnatural force, and I fall to the ground._

_I land on my back with a thump, and the District 4 male is almost on top of me. He slashes with his sword, and a great gash appears across my chest. It’s not as deep as it could be, but the pain radiates throughout my body, and I scream. This is it. This is the end. I am going to die. I struggle to avoid his next blow, but I won’t be able to get away in time._

I’m cold. I’m so cold. Everything about me is cold, from the inside out. The blankets piled on me haven’t been able to penetrate to the cold deep within my chest and abdomen. I take deep breaths, but I feel only cold air entering and leaving my body. I know it can’t be possible that the room isn’t that cold, until I realize that the cold is coming from me.

It’s all surreal. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be away from this room, away from the Capitol, away from it all. I’m in the hallway before I can even process what I’m doing.

Pitch is just coming in for the night. It’s late—I don’t know what time, but it’s probably at least 3:00 AM—and he’s just stepping out of the elevator. He sees me standing there in a state of fear and bewilderment.

“Juniper? You okay?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Bad dream,” I croak.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” He comes up to me and studies my face. I try not to avert my eyes. In the end, I can only look away. He nudges me back towards my bedroom.

But I protest, “I can’t sleep. I’m just going to go sit on the couch for a bit.”

“Is it okay if I join you?” he asks.

“Don’t you need to sleep?” I eye him skeptically.

“Eventually. But I’m not ready for that yet.”

“Sure, okay.”

The avoxes appear briefly to see if we want anything, but neither of us do. I plop on the couch next to Pitch and we stare at the black television screen. This is better—safer—than trying to turn it on and find something to watch. And while we stare at it, we can pretend that it’s showing us anything we want. Anything at all.

I lean into Pitch and he puts his arms around me. His warmth radiates into me and my chilled insides slowly begin to warm. Once again, his embrace offers comfort that I cannot obtain anywhere else, and this time there is no nosy Capitolite to bother us. I feel peace come over me. My eyelids get heavy, and I fall asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

All of the mentors are antsy the next day in the mentor room. It’s Day 4, and nothing of great importance has happened on screen for awhile. The Careers have done very little outside of the Bloodbath despite spending a couple days wandering around. Sponsorship has slowed down significantly. More than likely, there will be some event or another.

We’re not wrong.

At about 10:00 AM, the fog that is underneath the walkways begins to rise. Those on the lowest levels of the walkways are quickly consumed by the fog and immediately disoriented. This includes the Careers. They scatter in confusion. The District 8 male is heading right in the direction of the District 1 female and District 2 male, though none of them know it since the fog is so thick and pervasive. As it overtakes the lower levels, the fog continues to rise. Rosa and her alliance see this. They scramble to get higher and higher to keep away from the fog. It’s hard because there’s not one great ladder that leads them to the highest level of the trees; they need to run down the walkways until they see a ladder or set of steps, and once they have moved upward, need to search for another ladder or set of steps to get them even higher. Despite the panic, none of them are frantic or disoriented. Once they end up at a dead end and have to go back down and find another ladder that will lead them to a different walkway.

Green is one of the ones disoriented on a middle level. He doesn’t understand what’s happening and the fog wraps around him before he can escape. You can see in his eyes that he’s wishing that he could climb the tree to get away, but after watching Coal fall to his death a couple days ago, the kid has been far more reserved about his tree-climbing skills. Besides, his wrist is still broken and it likely will never heal in the arena.

The flags on the map that indicate the positions of the tributes begin to disperse as the fog scatters everyone. Only the three girls from Rosa’s alliance manage to stay together, and this is likely only because they were not on the lowest levels and saw the fog coming. I switch to the camera that lets me see three tributes that are about to collide: the District 1 female, District 2 male, and District 8 male. The Careers are calling back and forth for each other, but the fog eventually suppresses their voices and makes it challenging to hear each other. It’s clear that they cannot see more than five feet out, and even then, what they can see is reduced to shapes and shadows.

A shape approaches the District 1 female, Joy. She calls out if it’s the District 2 male, and when he doesn’t answer—she can’t tell that the fog has hindered noise as well as sight—she lashes out with her weapon. The District 2 male falls dead. But she can’t see who it is, only that he fell. The cannon booms. Within moments, the District 8 male gets too close, and once again, Joy strikes. A second cannon.

The District 2 mentor grumbles a curse at Isolde. Isolde only shrugs. “Not my fault,” she says.

Calico, on the other side of Esther, removes her monitoring device and sets it on the keyboard. “I had such high hopes for him,” she groans.

Now some of the other Careers are getting the idea that they need to move up levels. They clamber and climb as high as they can, as fast as they can. Unlike Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor, they cannot move very fast because they are so hindered by the fog that they can’t easily find the ladders to get to the higher levels. But they are still moving. The District 4 tributes manage to stay together, but the District 2 girl is separated.

I switch back to my alliance. It appears that the girls have reached as high as they can go. Although the trees are still reaching far into the sky, the tributes are at least a hundred yards higher than the bottom level. Again, it’s hard to tell because the levels aren’t stacked neatly on top of each other. But they begin to relax, taking turns peering over the edge into the fog far down below them. Panting, Rosa flops on the ground and takes out her bottle of water. There’s not much left—just a few drops.

“I bet we can use the fog to make water for us,” says Nicola as she stares down below.

Taylor and Rosa are immediately interested.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before—guess it was too far out of our reach,” she continues. “Give me a minute to think, and I’ll let you know.”

While they’re thinking, I check on Green. He, like several other tributes, has had very little water since entering the arena, and the disorienting fog did him little favors. He has managed to drink dew off of leaves in the early morning, and chew on bits of tree flesh. But most impressively, he managed to weave a basket to catch water that collected on broad leaves when the air grew moist during the night. Still, it hasn’t been enough. His health is currently at 49%. Right now, he’s wandering aimlessly through the fog. The basket is tied to his back like a turtle shell, and he has a branch in his hand like a child’s sword. His wide eyes search everywhere for any sign of danger, and yet he can see nothing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flag of the District 2 female coming closer to Green’s flag on the map.

“Pitch,” I whisper.

He sits up immediately and leans closer to the screen.

It’s clear that the District 2 female, Alina, isn’t exactly hunting anyone. She’s just as lost as the others. But after watching Joy kill two tributes in a matter of minutes—one being her ally—because she was so disoriented in the fog, I know that Alina will strike first and ask questions later. Backpack askew on her shoulder and knife in her hand, she walks slowly down the walkway.

A shadow appears down the path, and Green crouches down. He backs towards the rails and cowers underneath it. It’s only then that he seems to realize that he dropped his branch. Panic spreads across his face and he almost leans over to get it, but withdraws at the last moment as Alina appears.

The District 2 girl doesn’t seem to see him. Her eyes are ahead of her, not down towards her feet. And she doesn’t see the branch. Her foot catches, and she trips and falls, sprawling across the walkway with an “Umf!” The knife clatters from her hand. She turns around to see what she tripped over and starts cursing the branch. She doesn’t see Green.

Green jumps up, kicks the knife as hard as he can which sends it flying off the walkway and into the unknown. Then he, this little kid, grabs onto the District 2 girl’s backpack, and pulls as hard as he can.

The Career screams at him and turns around. But in doing so, she inadvertently twists her body in a manner that allows her backpack to come right off. Green looks stunned for a moment, and then he takes off running. And boy, can that kid run. The fog doesn’t even slow him down as he moves, jumping up and over steps, dodging branches, putting as much distance as he can between himself and the Career.

Pitch sits back in his chair, hands on his head, staring wide-eyed at the screen. We’re both thinking it: What the hell just happened? In a matter of moments, he successfully disarmed a Career and stole her gear. She’ll be able to get more back at the Cornucopia, but that doesn’t matter right now.

Green runs out of steam eventually and comes to a stop. Looking around for a place to hide, still immersed in the fog, he finally finds a little nook that’s partially blocked by an overhanging tree branch. Without the fog, he’d have no chance, but with the thick blanket of white, he’s safe. Once he’s tucked away, he begins to search through his bag. Hoorah! There’s water! Relief spreads across his face, and he twists off the cap of the bottle and guzzles the water down.

Pitch’s monitoring device pings once. Then again. And again. He’s receiving sponsorship for Green—multiple donations. Some are small amounts--$50, $100—but others are in the thousands. One is for $10,000. He ends up with nearly $35,000 in the span of three minutes. He looks just as relieved as Green did upon finding the water. The next several minutes, Pitch tries to sort out whether a parachute sent to his tribute will actually reach him and not get lost in the fog. He contacts the sponsorship authorities via his computer and receives reassurance that it will, indeed, reach Green. So after seeing all that Green has acquired in his supply pack—half-gallon of water (now nearly empty), two knives, night vision goggles, a granola bar, rope, and a compass—he sends his tribute a device to help him collect water from the fog or morning dew.

Ten minutes later, the parachute floats right next to Green, who snatches it up and crouches down once more. He turns it over in his hands for a moment, not sure what to do, but then he catches on and sets up the little contraption.

We are over halfway done with the Hunger Games. Not in terms of days—it can still be stretched on for much, much longer—but in terms of tributes. Thirteen are dead and eleven remain.

I’m back watching Rosa and her alliance again. They are making plans for collecting water. I follow along for a few minutes before I go back to see what all the other tributes are doing right now.

The District 2 girl is still wandering around, completely lost and very angry. The District 1 girl is also alone, but she appears to be much more confident. The pair from District 4 come across the District 6 male in the fog. The boy, Fjord, kills him in one quick motion. I think about Rikuto’s interview yesterday and how he had spoken so highly of the kid, Helmut. And now he, like the others, was dead. I swallow hard and try to push it out of my mind. At last all four Careers manage to make their way out of the fog and onto higher levels. The District 10 male is meandering around on one of the middle levels, slightly higher than the Careers. Only Green and the District 11 female are still within the cold white blanket.

It’s clear that the Gamemakers are not removing the fog anytime soon. That means that the Cornucopia—and all its supplies—are well hidden and only accessible to those brave enough to find it.

When I turn back to Rosa’s alliance, I find that my little tribute is volunteering to go back into the fog and try to find the Cornucopia.

“The Careers won’t see us coming,” she says to her allies. I can tell that they’re skeptical, but they hear her out. “You can’t see _anything_ in that fog.”

So they make a plan to go down there and find bottled water rather than trying to harvest it themselves. Which, Rosa points out, involves going back near there anyhow.


	35. Chapter 35

Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor make their way down the walkways and platforms slowly. They keep to the sides to dampen the sounds of their footsteps. Nicola is in the lead, Rosa right behind her, and Taylor brings up the rear. When they approach a ladder that leads down into the fog, they hesitate.

“We all understand that we don’t really know what’s down there, right?” Taylor whispers to them.

The other two nod. Nicola hesitates for a few seconds before climbing down the ladder. Rosa follows after her. Then comes Taylor. Now they are blanketed by fog, the path ahead of them nearly invisible. They still stay to the side of the path, stepping lightly and quickly, but not daring to run. At one point, they had contemplated tying themselves together with a rope so that they wouldn’t get separated, but decided against it when they realized that if one of them fell, the other two would be pulled off the walkway as well.

For the majority of the day, the three of them walk around, trying to go lower and lower back towards the Cornucopia. Watching them walk around is boring, especially when you have a map that shows you how much they inadvertently backtrack, but I still can’t tear myself away. Not even when Esther tells me that I need to take a few minutes and at least pee since it’s been hours since I’ve gotten up.

At long last, they manage to reach the Cornucopia. They almost miss it, but Rosa swears she sees something shiny up ahead. So one by one, they creep out into the giant open platform and head in the direction of the great horn. As they walk, they stop every now and again to listen. They’re so close to each other that they can hear when another one speaks, so they don’t realize that a few feet out, all noise vanishes. When they reach the wealth of goods the Careers have organized and stacked at the mouth of the Cornucopia, they spread out to search through the bags.

That’s when things start to go downhill. All three of them find what they need right this moment—water, and plenty of it—and help themselves. Then they fill their bags with water, food, and various supplies. Rosa switches out her sword for one that must be a little more comfortable and has its own sheath that she can wear on her waist. But when she looks up, the other two are gone. Vanished. A moment of panic flashes across Rosa’s eyes, but then she takes a deep breath and looks around. Keeping one hand on the supplies, she walks along the front of the horn until she comes across Nicola.

“Have you seen Taylor?” she asks.

Nicola shakes her head. “But I also haven’t looked. Why?”

“Fog’s so thick. Can’t see her.”

Nicola sighs, puts the last of the items she wants in her bag, and stands up. “C’mon, let’s stick together.”

The two of them repeat what Rosa did and keep a hand on the supplies as they walk around. This keeps them from getting completely turned around. Despite their tactic, Taylor is nowhere.

Then comes a wretched, piercing scream.

From by my side, Esther’s monitoring device vibrates and her screen lights up red. My breath catches, and several mentors turn and look in Esther’s direction, none of them daring to speak.

The screaming continues until Taylor bursts from the fog and stumbles into Rosa and Nicola. She’s bleeding from . . . everywhere, it seems. There are gashes across her face and a large slash across her stomach. A chunk of flesh is missing from her arm. Her knee is bleeding through a ragged tear in her pant leg. Nicola grabs one of Taylor’s blood-slickened hands and Rosa grabs the other, and the three of them start running back the way they came. Their feet pound against the walkway, and they’re no longer concerned about being heard by any other tribute because it’s quite clear that no other tribute has injured Taylor. Whatever it was couldn’t have been human.

The health stat on Esther’s screen is dropping fast. 52% . . . 48% . . . 35% . . . Taylor is bleeding out. She’s slowing the other two down, too. Her feet stumble once. Twice. She can’t stay standing. 28%. 13%.

“I’m slowing you down!” Taylor screams.

“No, keep moving!” Nicola says. She tries to tug on Taylor harder, but her hand slips in all the blood and Taylor cries out in pain.

9%

Rosa is howling for Taylor to move.

4%

Taylor falls to the ground.

2%

There’s a great roar from behind them. Rosa and Nicola look frightened in the direction from which they had come. Then at Taylor.

1%

Rosa leans over, and Nicola reaches to grab her, thinking that Rosa is going to try to move their ally again. But instead Rosa pulls the bag off of Taylor.

0%

A cannon booms.

Nicola shoulders the bag for Rosa and the two of them start running again, putting as much space as they can between themselves and whatever killed Taylor.

Esther’s monitoring device finally stops vibrating.

I don’t know what to say. Esther sits there, staring dumbly at the computer screen. There are tears in her eyes. At the last moment, she sits up straight, sniffs, and wipes her eyes so the tears don’t spill over. She turns to me and says, “I need a few minutes.”

Then she gets up and heads to the women’s bathroom.

A few moments later, there’s a muted shriek as Esther releases her emotions.


	36. Chapter 36

Esther packs up her things and leaves. “I’ll catch you around,” she mutters to me. Her reddened eyes hold such sorrow that I can’t even fathom what I should say to her. Still, I walk her to the door. She turns around and hugs me, and I hug her back.

“Good luck with Rosa. I really hope she wins,” she says. Then she disappears.

I return to my seat next to Pitch. How does one recover from watching that? It’s . . . worse from this end. The frantic vibrating of the monitoring device, the flashing of the computer screen. . . . Back home when you’re watching the Hunger Games, you don’t see the tribute’s health status dropping. You don’t see any of it. And as powerless as you feel watching it at home, you feel a hundred times worse while watching it from this workstation with all the notifications and continual status changes.

“You need to take a break,” Pitch says.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking. You need to cool down for a minute. I’ll keep an eye out on Rosa for you.”

I don’t move. Then Elijah is behind me. He clears his throat.

“Come with me, Juniper,” he says.

I look him up and down, not sure what he means. His computer station is on the other side of the room, but I don’t think I need to sit next to him. However, when I stand up, he leads me to the exit. Now even more confused than before, I follow him out the door and into the main hallway. Then we go to the very end of the hallway. He pushes open a door and we’re outside.

The balcony is about fifteen feet wide and ten feet deep. It overlooks a portion of the grounds surrounding the training center; namely, a reflecting pool, walkway, and several bushes. But all that is many floors below us. The wind whips my hair in my face, and I tuck some unruly strands behind my ear.

Elijah leans against the balcony as though he is looking out into the heart of the Capitol. After a moment, I join him. He doesn’t say anything for a long time; it appears that he’s enjoying the breeze on his face. It _is_ nice up here. The wind is refreshing, and I can breathe easier. I hadn’t realized how stuffy the mentor room had gotten.

“When you met me the other day, I was drunk,” he says at last. “I’m not normally drunk. It was pretty unprofessional, but I’m not going to apologize for it. This is a hard job. It’s not one we sign up for. When you leave the arena, you’re just glad that you’re alive and that _anything_ will be better than what you just experienced. You don’t understand that that’s the easy part.”

We stand in silence for a moment as I take in what he said. None of it is new to me; it all echoes what I’ve known all along, even if I hadn’t put it into words.

He continues, “Your tribute is going to die. So will mine. We can buy all the crap we can to keep them alive—as we should—but in the end, they’re just going to suffer and die a painful death just like Taylor did. But no matter how many times we tell you that, it’s not going to change the fact that when that moment comes, it’s going to destroy you. It’s stupid to pretend that it won’t, even though it sounds hypocritical coming from me after what I told you the other day. You’re going to figure out a way to handle the pain—hopefully without burying yourself in drugs and alcohol—and you’re going to have to brace yourself because the exact same thing will happen next year. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself that it won’t hurt, it always does.

“The Capitol wants to hurt us and to keep us under control, and they’ll do whatever they can to stick a knife in our guts and twist. That’s why they rig the Hunger Games. You can get people to pay you money so you can buy stuff, and whatever mentor has the most money will buy his tribute the best stuff only to have that tribute killed in some absolutely batshit-insane manner. It’s not a game of skill. Mentoring is not something you get better at with experience. Like the pain from losing a tribute, it’s always fresh and confusing and completely unnecessary. They _want_ you to become attached to your tribute so that you will feel that fresh anguish every year.”

“I don’t really understand,” I admit. “Why? We won. We did what they wanted us to do. Why continue to torture us?”

“Because this country is run by people who use fear and pain to control the population. The Hunger Games are a method to punish the Districts, not to elevate the winners to Capitol status.”

“Is that why they never restored your vision? I mean, they replace body parts and organs and stuff all the time.”

Elijah gives a humorless laugh. “They said it would be ‘unnatural’ to restore my eyesight. Look around. Tell me that anything in this godforsaken city is natural.”

I don’t know how to answer that. There is nothing I can say.

“When I left the arena, there was a trend. I can’t make this shit up. They had some gauzy wrap people would put around their heads to make them look blind. Not sure how successful it was because I couldn’t actually _see_ any of it, but they really had a trend that was mocking what they did to me.”

“And then they’d go home and take off the gauze wrap and see without a problem, huh?” I ask. “I’m sorry, Elijah—that really sucks.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m not telling you this because I want sympathy or pity or anything. I just want you to see what sort of freakish bastards are controlling us. And . . . I don’t want you to get your hopes up with Rosa. It’s going to hurt one way or another, but it will hurt more if you think that she has a chance.”

So he is trying to protect me? Or does he want me to give up on her which may give his own tribute an advantage? No. I don’t know much about Elijah, but I don’t think he throws around his past so lightly.

“What about Nicola? She’s strong. Yet you say that she’s going to die.”

“Nicola is a good person, but she’s not a great tribute,” Elijah says.

“Meaning?”

“To win, you need to be the latter. Doesn’t matter what type of person you are as long as you are a great tribute.” He rubs his cheek absently, still facing out into the city.

We once more find ourselves in silence. It’s peaceful up here, and I take the time to digest what Elijah has told me. I’m not sure if I fully understand it all, but I do know that if Rosa loses, I’ll be completely broken. And I also won’t be alone.

“I should call Esther,” I say.

“Give her some time to process it,” he says. “But I’m sure she’ll appreciate a call.”

I head back towards the door, but I stop before going back inside. Elijah doesn’t move. I think he needs more time out here by himself. Still I say, “Hey, Elijah? Thank you.”

He grunts in reply.


	37. Chapter 37

Rosa and Nicola manage to hobble back to the top level of the walkways as night is coming upon them. The two of them have made the journey in silence, and they crawl up onto a platform and sit there stupidly for another few minutes. Nicola peels off her bags and throws them on the ground. Rosa takes hers off and opens it.

They don’t need to use the flameless heater they worked so hard for tonight because they have plenty of food from the Cornucopia.

Nicola starts to cry. She buries her face in her hands and her shoulders heave. She’s a delicate crier, though, and she barely makes a sound. Rosa, on the other hand, stares off blankly ahead of her and eats beef jerky from a package, washing it down with water.

The anthem jars them from their stupor, and their faces immediately turn towards the heavens above. Four faces appear in the sky tonight—the most of any day since the bloodbath—and Rosa and Nicola watch the images of the District 2 male, District 6 male, and both from District 8 glow high above them. The music ends as abruptly as it started, plunging them into a naked silence.

“I’ll take first watch,” Rosa says. Nicola nods gratefully and curls up on her side. Rosa slips on night vision goggles and, for the next hour, sorts through the bags of supplies. She carefully evens out both bags and sets the third bag—Taylor’s bag—to the side. The two remaining bags are heavy, but at least there are plenty of supplies to get them by.

Rosa leans against the side of a tree around which this particular walkway is built and stares. She still has the night vision goggles on, so it’s difficult to see if she’s looking at anything in particular. Hours pass, and she barely moves except to look around on occasion.

I fall asleep at my computer station, and when I wake dawn is just breaking across the horizon. Rosa is asleep and Nicola is keeping watch.

There are nine tributes left. Rosa has almost made it to the top eight. Soon they’d be interviewing the families—and very likely a whole new round of interviews for the mentors—to ask them all about what it feels like to have a kid live this long. I saw my parents’ interview when I was in the arena, and it was absolutely heartbreaking. They held onto so much hope that I’d be returning home, and yet they knew—you could read it in their body language, their speech—that they should release that hope and consider me dead.

I rub my tired eyes and head to the lounge for coffee. In passing, I find Pitch asleep on a couch-bed, but I don’t disturb him.

As I settle back in front of the computer, I think about what Elijah had said yesterday. About how I’m going to be completely destroyed if—when—Rosa dies. Although I don’t want to believe it, I don’t see how it could not be true. She had pissed me off so badly when I found out she’d propagated rumors and lead us to believe it was Green who started them all, but none of that matters anymore. I only want her to return home no matter what she has to do to get back to us. She can tell all the rumors she wants if it means she doesn’t leave the arena in a box.

Since there was so much chaos yesterday, the Gamemakers likely aren’t going to throw another arena-wide event at them. They will instead allow the audience to watch how the tributes handle what they’ve just been through. Besides, it’s only Day 5—the Hunger Games _can’t_ end too early.

I take a moment to check in on Green. He’s still in the fog, and it doesn’t look like things are going too well for him. His health is at 32%. That’s a decrease of 6% since last time I checked. It’s been a slow trickle; nothing too great. But it’s still concerning, and I know that if he were my tribute, I’d want to know. So I head back to the lounge.

I sit on the side of Pitch’s bed-couch and hesitate. He’s pretty solidly asleep. There are a few other mentors in here right now, and none of them look to be as peaceful as Pitch. One of the District 4 mentors is mumbling things in his sleep, and the District 2 mentor keeps tossing and turning. I reach out and touch Pitch’s shoulder.

“Hey, Pitch?” I shake him a little.

He mumbles something and turns over to face me. His eyes are bleary and he blinks several times.

“Something the matter?”

“Green is at 32%. Just thought you wanted to know.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his eyes and then stares at the monitoring device still attached to his wrist. “Fuck. The kid has hypothermia.”

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he ambles in the direction of the computers. I stop by the table and get him coffee before joining him at our stations.

“I don’t understand what he’s doing,” I say as I sit down and hand Pitch his coffee. He takes it. “Why isn’t he moving? He’s just sitting there in the fog.”

“I think he’s in shock,” Pitch says. He scratches his head and stares hard at the screen.

“He hasn’t moved since yesterday.”

I don’t think Green is going to make it much longer. It’s not just that he’s cold and his body is entering into freezing mode, but it just seems like he’s . . . given up. First his mouth stopped working and now his body stopped working.

Pitch continues to stare at Green as though hoping he could move the tribute with his mind. I turn back to Rosa and Nicola. They start to move for the day. Weariness is written on their faces, and their movements are lethargic. Five days in the arena is nothing if you consider some Hunger Games last over two weeks. But when you’re actually in the arena, it’s around five days that you start to break down in ways you never thought about. Some people adapt and others don’t. You move on or you die.

There’s a cannon, and I start. Immediately my attention goes Pitch’s screen, but I’m relieved to find that it’s not Green. And then I think about Rosa but neither she nor Nicola is dead. Instead it’s the District 11 female. She has died from exposure. Like Green, she had spent the night in the fog.

Demeter takes off her monitoring device and leaves without a word.

Both Rosa and Green have made it to the top eight. Two twelve year olds from the same district have made it so much farther than anyone thought they’d ever go. It’s more than I could have thought possible. I’m almost giddy, but the exhaustion is nearly too much for me.

And within moments, I receive a notification on my screen:

JUNIPER SADIK

YOU ARE SCHEDULED FOR AN INTERVIEW THIS MORNING AT 10:00 AM.

PLEASE BE AT THE MEZZANINE OF THE TRAINING CENTER AT 9:45 AM.

YOU ARE EXCUSED FROM THIS EVENT ONLY IF YOUR TRIBUTE IS IN CRITICAL CONDITION ( < 20 % ) OR IS IN IMMEDIATE DANGER.


	38. Chapter 38

After a shower (the first in a few days, maybe—I’ve lost track), I meet Pitch in the District 7 apartment and head down to the interview together. Exhaustion bogs me down, but I manage to hold my head up as we approach the mezzanine.

There are eight of us here today, but the training center coordinator explains that we aren’t all going to be interviewed all at once. He tells us that we’re going to go in order of our district number, with both mentors of District 4 being interviewed at the same time, and both mentors of District 7 being interviewed together. At least, I think, they’re not setting us up to answer any relationship questions, though I don’t doubt that they will crop up.

The coordinator takes us to a bench on the first floor right inside the door of the training center. He then leads Isolde out first. She gives us a wave as she leaves. After about ten minutes, the mentor for the District 2 tribute is called up.

It reminds me of the training sessions when you have to wait for the districts before you. It’s nerve wracking, and I find myself bouncing my leg up and down as I wait, trying not the peel the thin coat of varnish off my nails.

Then the pair from District 4 are being called up, leaving Elijah, Pitch, Lady, and me behind. Despite the fact that I know these mentors and am more comfortable with them than most others, I have no desire to socialize. Instead I take in the architecture of the training center, with its great entryway that spans multiple floors and the elevator that disappears up into the ceiling. It’s not the sort of thing you appreciate when you’re a tribute. Not when everything is new and crazy and deadly.

Next is Elijah’s turn.

“What are they going to ask us, Pitch?” I turn to my fellow mentor after we are once more left in silence. “What sorts of things do they usually ask?”

“About how our tributes have managed to get this far, how long we think they’re going to live, how we’re handling the stress and excitement. All those sorts of things,” he says. “And for us they’ll probably want to know how it affects our relationship, or if our relationship affects our mentoring.”

“Didn’t they just ask all this? At the Q&A?”

“Yes. But they’ll phrase the questions a little differently so that things aren’t exactly the same,” he says.

I nod like I understand.

Minutes pass, and then it’s our turn. I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to be in the spotlight again.

We are lead out to the same area we were the other day. Crowds greet us with pounding cheers, and now that it’s daylight, it’s hard to avoid looking at the massive number of people crammed into the plaza. More than before. We aren’t seated at a table but in chairs right next to each other. Big ones shaped like cups with uncomfortable arm rests. This time instead of Pythia, it’s Caligula Klora. Immediately I’m immersed back in my interview before my Hunger Games, and it takes strength to pull myself back to the present.

“Juniper Sadik and Pitch Yassen, of District 7! What a _delight_ to have you two with us this morning,” he greets us warmly. “I’m really excited to see how far your tributes have made it. They’ve had so many odds stacked against them since their names were called, and yet here they are. What are your thoughts?”

“Both my Green and Juniper’s Rosa are fighters,” Pitch replies. “They have weathered some tough situations and come out on top, both inside and outside of the arena.”

“They are most certainly showing that. Juniper, I think about what Rosa said during the interview and how she is a force to be reckoned with. I think she’s really showing us that that’s the case. Surviving the beast in the fog? Wow, that required some very quick thinking.”

He stares at me. Oh, am I supposed to talk now?

Shit, what am I supposed to say? That wasn’t even a question.

“Juniper?” Caligula asks. He smiles at me. “How do you think she’s doing it?”

“With . . . her brain?” I offer. I mentally kick myself. That was dumb. Super dumb. This would no doubt be broadcast to her parents and family at home. How could I do her justice if this is the sort of shit that I’m saying? So I fumble for a way to make up. “I think smart tributes are often overlooked because they can’t actually pull off what they need to pull off. But Rosa’s different. She comes up with an idea and she executes it well.”

“Yes she does,” Caligula agrees. “This must be an extremely tense time for you guys. Juniper, I can tell you’re a bit tired. Probably didn’t get much sleep last night with all the excitement, huh?” Caligula continues. I just smile half-heartedly. “It must be nice that you have each other to help you out during this time. Tell me, do you guys talk work together?”

Thank heavens for Pitch. “Right now, our tributes are not allied with each other, so there aren’t too many in-depth discussions, but we throw ideas off each other and talk about the various activities in the arena,” he says casually.

“How do you make room for each other in your schedules?” Caligula asks. “Busy as you are, I’m sure it must be tough.”

“Well, Caligula, it can be pretty tough, sure, but as I mentioned in the Q&A the other day, we make work our priority,” Pitch answers for us both. “It’s just good to know that Juniper and I are in this together.”

“That really must be an amazing experience to be working together to bring your tributes home,” Caligula says. “Juniper, speaking of, your tribute is in the top eight and you’re only in your first year of mentoring. How did you do it?”

I hesitate because immediately I think of Elijah telling me that it doesn’t matter how many years you do this because experience can’t help you. But I push the thought out of my mind and try to focus on Caligula’s question.

“I am very lucky that I have a great tribute. Rosa is pretty kick-ass. And, of course, knowing that Pitch is here by my side every step of the way is something I can’t really describe. It’s . . . cool.” I try to smile. Maybe I do, maybe I just grimace. But I at least try. And I hope that no one sees what a lying piece of shit I am.

“You know, I think that every mentor is probably pretty jealous of you two right now,” Caligula says. “For what you have going on here. It’s not often we have mentors who are so dedicated to their job—and each other—as you guys. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to drift from that topic for a minute, but we don’t have much time left and I need to cover this topic. Pitch, your tribute isn’t looking so hot right now. Little Green is struggling to hang on. How long do you think he’ll make it?”

I drift out. Shut my brain off. Look at all the dazzling lights around me, and let my eyes lose focus until all the people are little fleshy blobs in the distance. I can’t take this anymore. This line of questioning is disgusting. I’d rather people sit here and ask Pitch and me about the details of our romance rather than have to field inquiries about the immediate demise of a tribute. If I sit here and gaze off into the distance, I don’t have to answer anything. Problem solved. Ish.

“. . . he’s a durable kid . . . things are getting a little intense for him right now. . . .”

“. . . health can’t last much. . .”

“. . . give up . . .”

“. . . yes, of course . . .”

“. . . end . . .”

“. . . goodbye . . .”

Pitch leads me offstage. I don’t really know what happened. I . . . don’t _think_ I passed out, but there are some blank parts in my memory. I’m not bleeding and I’m not sore, so I know I didn’t attack anything. But I just . . . don’t feel like I’m all there. What happened? What did I miss?

“Juniper?” Pitch has my face cupped in his hands and he’s looking straight into my eyes. “Juniper? Can you hear me?”

“Hmm?” I mumble.

“I need you to answer me. In words,” he says.

It takes a few seconds for me to wrap my head around what he’s saying. Then I manage to push out a “Hi.” Which is a word. Not a useful one right now, but he didn’t specify.

“I kind of . . . lost you out there,” Pitch says. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I admit. “What happened?”

“You just kind of went comatose. Almost had to carry you offstage,” he explains. “Have you been eating?”

“Hmm? Yes,” I reply.

“How about sleeping?” he asks.

“I think?”

“Okay, when we get back, you need to lay down and sleep. I’ll watch Rosa for you.”

Sleep sounds heavenly.

“Pitch, I . . . the interview,” I say. “I can’t do more. They’re horrible. I can’t listen to—”

The monitoring device on Pitch’s wrist vibrates. And since he is still holding onto my face, I feel that vibration in my jaw. It’s a sudden and jarring feeling, and he immediately releases me to look at his device.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

He doesn’t say anything at first. So I manage to reach out to him and nudge his arm. “Upstairs,” I say. I’m still a bit delirious, but I manage to stagger forward.

Pitch grabs onto me to keep me from falling over a bench, and we move towards the elevator. He’s saying nothing. I don’t want to prod, but I want to know what’s happening. Is Green dead? If he’s alive, what’s going on?


	39. Chapter 39

When we get back to the mentor room, I’m able to see for myself what’s wrong. I throw myself in the chair next to Pitch and flip to the cameras surrounding Green.

Green’s health is at 18% which is considered “critical.” But it’s not from the hypothermia directly. Once more, Green is climbing trees. Between his poor state and the broken wrist, his health dropped significantly. And yet, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s found a tree that is pretty easy to climb, even with the broken bone. Then I realize that it’s not the tree itself, per se: there are little wooden slats hammered into the tree that provide enough area for a handhold or foothold. Like a little ladder, they go up and up and up. This is what Green is climbing.

It takes nearly an hour. He’s at 15% by the time he pulls himself out of the fog.

“Good kid,” Pitch mutters to his screen. And then, without a word to me, Pitch leaves the room.

I turn back to Rosa and Nicola. It’s still the fifth day, though it could be tenth or hundred or thousandth, and it would all feel the same. The tributes make themselves a light lunch of squirrel and acorns. They don’t talk with each other for the most of it except to ask for items or give commands. “Pass me the skewer, will you?” “We can use this knife to gut the squirrel.” “How much water should we use?”

When they finish, they sit there for several seconds before Rosa says, “I’m going to go look around.”

Nicola’s head whips up. “No, we need to stick together,” she insists. The fear shines prominently in her eyes. I wonder if she’s afraid of losing her remaining ally or if she’s scared of being alone.

“I’ll be right there,” Rosa points down the walkway to an area that is relatively free from trees. “And I’ll be really careful.”

Nicola finally nods. “I’ll hang onto our things here.”

Rosa stares at her for a second. Is she trying to figure out whether she can trust Nicola with all of their supplies? But she nods and then turns around. The short sword still hangs at her waist, so she won’t be entirely unprepared. Rosa has proven that she has a lot of skill in the arena—determination, guts—but does she have the ability to really use that sword if put in a tight situation?

We’re about to find out because, unbeknownst to Rosa and Nicola, the District 4 tributes have reunited with the District 1 and 2 females, and they’re heading right in their direction.

Rosa looks around cautiously before stepping onto the walkway and heading towards the area she pointed out. When she creeps over, I can see why she wanted to go here: there is a very clear view of several surrounding walkways, and you can see where the fog reaches. It might be the most unobscured area of the arena which, unfortunately, leaves Rosa very exposed. What it doesn’t allow her to see is the area of the walkway she’s currently standing about ten yards away where it turns and disappears into the trees.

And that’s where the Careers are now.

They pick up speed when they see Rosa and are on her in a flash, weapons drawn. My heartrate increases, and I grip the arms of my chair. I’m helpless. I can only watch this horror unfold as Rosa is about to get mowed down by not one, not two but four Careers at once. Rosa turns around in time to see them upon her, and her eyes grow wide. She doesn’t have time to run. She’s trapped.

“No!” she cries out.

The hungry gleam in the Careers’ eyes show that they’re eating up her pitiful cry. This is what they live for. This is what they’ve been trained for.

In the mentor room, everyone is silent. I feel bile welling up in my stomach.

“I can get you supplies!” Rosa cries out. “I can lead you back to the Cornucopia! I’ve been there!”

The Careers don’t stop running, but when they get to her, the District 2 girl, Alina, latches onto her small frame and holds a knife to Rosa’s neck. “Is that so?” she asks. Intrigued, but not willing to believe it quite yet.

Rosa’s blood pressure is rising. Her temperature is increasing. My computer silently updates me with the latest recordings.

“I went yesterday!” Rosa whimpers.

The knife presses closer to her throat. “Why is their blood on you, kid?” District 2 demands. “How did you survive this long?”

“Nicola killed Taylor! It was horrible!” Rosa gulps for air. “They were . . . they were my alliance. And now Taylor is dead! Nicola took all my supplies. I was . . .” she hiccups “. . . going to go get more at the Cornucopia.”

Good girl. Good liar. The Careers exchange a few glances and then the District 4 male, Fjord, says, “Might as well. We’ll kill her if she leads us astray.”

They’ll kill her anyway. Rosa knows that. But she watches them with large eyes because she doesn’t have a choice right now.

“Alright, fine,” the other Careers agree.

To keep Rosa from running away, they weigh her down with the one backpack they have. I’m not sure what’s inside it, but it’s heavy and Rosa struggles under the weight. Then they tie her hands together in front of her so she can’t take the backpack off. She whimpers when they wrap the rope around her wrists, and she asks politely if they could not hurt her anymore. “I’m not going anywhere. You guys would only catch me again right away.”

So they give her more slack—just the smallest bit—in her restraints, and then they push her to get moving.

Nicola, meanwhile, is still hiding on her platform, visibly shaken. She doesn’t move. I don’t blame her. Rosa is only an ally to her, and at some point the little girl would have to die for Nicola to win. That’s the Hunger Games, and most tributes come to that understanding at some point or another in the arena, even if they never leave it alive.

True to her word, Rosa leads the Careers back towards the Cornucopia, though she does it at her own pace. The route they take is somewhat convoluted and isn’t the most straightforward path. I can’t tell if Rosa does this intentionally. When they push her to move faster, she whimpers and shifts the weight of the backpack on her shoulders to indicate that it is weighing her down. But she doesn’t say anything to them about it. She wants to look helpless but she doesn’t want to let them think she’s weak.

They’re in the fog when night rolls in, so Fjord suggests they sleep here for the night at risk of getting turned around in the haze. Oceana agrees, but Alina grumbles. Joy looks like she’s pumped for the adventure, and it’s hard for her to settle down. Rosa doesn’t mention how close they are to the Cornucopia, but my map shows that if they had kept walking another few minutes, they would have been there.

There is no more rope, so they can’t tie Rosa up. Instead they plop her down on the ground, bag still attached to her back, and rope still around her wrists. Then they themselves settle in for the evening. The anthem plays, and there is only the District 11 tribute in the sky tonight. The Careers make comments about how they’re going to handle the remainder of the Hunger Games, mostly how they’re going to hunt the other tributes. None of them acknowledge that there are four Careers left and that they’re going to eventually need to turn on each other. At last Oceana says she’ll take first watch. Everyone agrees, though it takes awhile for them to settle in. There is only one blanket to share between them—a piece of silver fabric that one of them must’ve had on them when they fled the fog—and they huddle together to stay warm.

Little Rosa curls up awkwardly with the backpack hindering her movement. Tomorrow they’ll expect her to keep marching, but will her body be able to handle it without a break from the heavy weight? I hear one of the District 4 mentors mention something about the bag being full of extra weaponry and random debris they found just to make sure that there was some shape to the bag because some Careers are used to travelling heavy and a partially-full bag will throw off their swing. So they either use no bag or a heavy one. These are the things you would never know if you were not a Career.

The hours tick by. Oceana gets up and paces around. She doesn’t travel too far away because the fog is thick and it’s hard to see.

Rosa shivers. Her health drops to 78%. A few more minutes go by. 75%. She won’t last the night like this.


	40. Chapter 40

Rosa isn’t asleep. She’s watching Oceana walk around. Disappear into the fog and reappear. She turns to the sleeping forms of the Careers not too far from her. The fake snores that they had given to try to convince the others they were asleep have turned to real ones.

And now Rosa makes her move.

When Oceana is farther away, Rosa plays with the ropes on her wrists. It takes five, ten minutes, but then she has the rope completely off. Barely moving, she twists an arm and ties one end of the rope to the bag on her back. And then quietly, ever so quietly, she slips an arm out of the bag, and then the other. Her movements are slow and deliberate, timed with Oceana’s paces. Whenever the Career comes near, Rosa slows to a stop, ready to close her eyes and pretend to sleep. And when the Career walks away, she starts working again.

Rosa ties the rope to the ankle of the closest Career, Alina. It’s a thorough knot that won’t be easily undone.

I watch with curiosity, not certain what she has planned until she makes her next move.

The Careers are sleeping on the walkway. Because there are three of them, the two on the outside are closer to the edge. And Alina isn’t too far from the edge nearest Rosa.

With the bag tied firmly to Alina’s ankle, Rosa gives it one big push with the soles of her boots. It rolls over the side of the walkway and into oblivion, taking Alina of District 2 with it.

Rosa jumps up and runs as the Careers wake with a start. Oceana hurries back to them just in time to see Alina scrambling to try to hold onto the edge of the walkway. There is no rail here for her to grab onto. Her fingernails dig into the wooden boards, but it’s no use. The other Careers are too slow to help, and Alina disappears off the side.

Moments later, a cannon booms.

Rosa runs. She doesn’t care how loud her boots are against the floorboards right now as she puts as much space between herself and the Careers as she can. It’s in her advantage that the Careers are shouting at each other in confusion, trying to understand what exactly happened. None of them have an explanation, and it’s only making them angrier. Joy and Fjord blame Oceana for not watching closely enough. Oceana tells them that they’re idiots if they think she can see through this thick fog. They argue as they try to figure out if they should pursue Rosa or continue to the Cornucopia.

Once Rosa is out of the fog, she navigates easily back towards where she left Nicola.

Meanwhile, the Careers have decided that they need supplies and once they have them, they’ll find and kill Rosa “easily enough.” But they have to wait until morning to keep moving.

Rosa’s health has increased to 94% by the time she returns to Nicola. Nicola, however, has moved from the place they were. After a couple minutes, though, she reappears with both bags.

“What happened?” asks Nicola.

“They started arguing and I escaped!” Rosa gasps.

“Did the fog monster get them?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t see what happened!” Rosa says.

Nicola insists on making her some food. She gives Rosa water and hands her back her bag.

“I was so worried,” Nicola confesses. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and save you. I just . . .”

“There were four of them! I know,” Rosa sighs. “It was just so scary. I didn’t think I’d live.”

And then my monitoring device starts blowing up with notifications. The sponsorships are pouring in. Little Rosa, master manipulator. Killed a Career and lead everyone astray, even her own ally. And yet she’s just the sweetest little thing anyone’s ever seen. For the first time since her name was drawn from the reaping bowl, everyone now thinks she has a chance. And they’re showing it with their generous donations in her favor.

There’s enough money in her bank that I buy her an outrageously expensive gift: a warming shirt. It’s designed to help keep her body at the appropriate temperature so if she steps into the fog again, as I suspect she will, her risks of hypothermia decrease. A few minutes later, a small parachute floats down and lands near her. She eagerly grabs it up, and unwraps it. Then she pulls off her jacket and shirt and slips this one on before dressing again. Nicola comments on how lucky she is and how nice the shirt is. Rosa just grins at her. “I guess they’re proud that I can move that fast,” Rosa says.

Nicola insists that Rosa gets some rest, and the little girl snuggles in right next to her ally. Within moments, she’s asleep.

It’s only then that I remember there are other people in the room, and as the world around me stars becoming more vivid—the sounds of other people’s computers, footsteps, talking from the lounge—I realize that the other mentors are looking at me.

“What?” I demand.

They just mutter things—apologies for staring or “nothing” or whatever—and go back to their own business. I get up and head into the lounge where I crash on a couch, not bothering to turn it into a bed.


	41. Chapter 41

Day 6 in the Hunger Games and there are seven tributes left. Two of them are from District 7. When I stagger back to my computer station, I find that Pitch has returned.

“Where’d you go?” I ask.

“Had to drum up some sponsorship,” he replied. I look at his screen and see that there’s a bit of money in his bank. Pitch scans the shop to see what he can buy to best help his tribute. Green’s health has increased to 32% now that he’s out of the fog. Seeing what a difference the fog makes, I’m happy I spent the money to buy Rosa that shirt.

I check up on my tribute. Both she and Nicola are sleeping. Not wise, but they’re not in any immediate danger, at least not from tributes.

“I saw that Rosa had some fun while I was gone,” Pitch says.

“Yeah, she took out the District 2 female.”

“That kid never fails to surprise me,” he chuckles.

Me neither.

The Careers are waking up and stretching. Within minutes, they start towards the Cornucopia, or at least the direction they believe it to be in. Soon enough, they find it. I watch detachedly as they grab supplies, and get enough food and drink to tide them over. Unlike Rosa’s alliance, they’re better prepared for the fog and they know that it can easily disorient them and separate them, so they stick close together. But of course they aren’t prepared for what lives in the fog.

We’re never really shown what the fog monster is. All we know is that it kills tributes in horrible ways.

When Joy disappears, Fjord and Oceana mutter under their breath. I don’t think either of them really likes Joy, but since they are part of an alliance, they deal with her. I guess they must have thought that Joy meandered from them.

Then Joy starts screaming, just like Taylor did.

Isolde, from the other side of the mentoring room, takes off her monitoring device and tosses it towards the trash can where it lands with a solid THUNK.

Joy is still alive, but barely so. The beast goes after Fjord and Oceana, too, (we don’t see it, exactly, because the fog is conveniently too thick at that moment from that angle) but they manage to escape the worst of the injuries. Grabbing their bags, they leave Joy behind. The alliance with the District 1 tribute is no longer needed, and she would only slow them down even if she were to live. We don’t know what exactly happens to Joy, but we hear her screams for another thirty seconds—complete, incomprehensible anguish—combined with a nauseating ripping noise, and then they stop. A cannon booms.

Fjord and Oceana of District 4 are the last remaining Careers. Oceana is bleeding pretty badly from her leg, but neither of them stops and she manages to keep up with her district partner. They run until Oceana can’t run anymore, and then they stop. Wordlessly, they begin to treat her wound, applying pressure with bandages and blankets from within their bags. Oceana keeps an eye out while Fjord helps her, but the fog monster doesn’t appear.

Six tributes left.

When it appears that there is a lull in the excitement—Rosa and Nicola are keeping low—I head back to the apartment to call Esther. The thing with victors is that we all have our own mobile phones, but we almost never use them except for Hunger Games purposes. All phones are tapped, no exceptions. We don’t know who’s listening in or how often, but you just assume that the rooms in the apartment are bugged and so are any phones they allow you to use.

I dig up my phone from the bottom of my wardrobe and find Esther’s number pre-programmed in. I hit “enter” and listen to the phone ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Esther, it’s me, Juniper,” I say.

“Oh hey,” she says emotionlessly.

“I wanted to check in and see if you need anything.” I cradle the phone against my ear and absently stare at the junk I’ve accumulated in my wardrobe already—mostly clothes piled on the bottom plus a wide array of books.

“Thanks, Juniper.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk or something?”

“That sounds nice, but I think I’ll take a raincheck,” Esther says politely.

“You sure?”

“I appreciate it, but I think I just need some time.” She pauses for a moment. “Really, Juniper. I appreciate the call. I’ll . . . talk with you in a few days, okay?”

I’m disappointed, but also a little relieved that I won’t have to leave Rosa. “Yeah, okay. Call me whenever you want.”

“Thanks.”

When we disconnect, I can’t tell how much she appreciated my call verse how much she was just being polite. Esther is very good at being polite, after all.

Back in the mentoring room, I decide to be a good mentor-ally and check in with Elijah. He is at his computer station with his head phones on, so I make sure to stomp a little bit when I approach. I don’t know if he needs this sort of signal or what, but I also don’t want to startle him.

He pulls off his headphones.

“What do you need, Juniper?” he asks.

I sit down in the chair previously occupied by his fellow District 5 mentor. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Alright, now you’re a social butterfly?”

“Only because our tributes are in an alliance. Otherwise I’d be ignoring you like I ignore the others.” I place my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not sure how much longer the alliance will continue,” Elijah says.

“Why?” I demand. “What happened?”

“Cool it. It’s just that it’s several days into the Hunger Games and there are only six of them left. When the numbers start dwindling, the alliances begin to fall apart.”

“I’m not sure Rosa will be so eager to leave Nicola when there are still two Careers left,” I inform him. “She knows she’s small and won’t stand a chance against them, especially since she managed to escape once. They won’t give her a second chance.”

“Then they risk being the last two remaining,” Elijah leans back in his chair.

“I really don’t think that Rosa will have a problem with that,” I say.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I hesitate. “Rosa . . . is a pretty clever kid. I have no doubt that she knew since the moment she agreed to the alliance that she would have to kill the other two.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption,” he says.

“It’s . . . based on facts.” I don’t want to give him too much information. It’s not really necessary at this point. But it turns out that I don’t have to talk about it at all because somewhere in the room, one of the monitoring devices starts vibrating, and it doesn’t stop.

I check mine instinctively even though I don’t feel a vibration. Then I look at Elijah, but it’s not his either. Turning, I scan the room.

“Oh no. It’s Green.” I leave Elijah and race back to my computer station to take my seat next to Pitch.

Pitch is staring vacantly at the screen where the District 10 tribute, Phil, is slashing his knife into Green.


	42. Chapter 42

Green struggles to get away from Phil’s weapon. He manages to move backwards from the knife, but Phil leans in and starts stabbing. With gurgling cries, Green falls to the ground and begs the District 10 tribute to stop. He sounds so pitiful. So young. My heart is burning with pain as I watch Phil draw the bloodied knife away from the twelve-year-old’s body. But the cries for mercy are no good. The knife comes down again and again and again. Until Green lies motionless on the wooden platform.

A cannon booms.

The little boy with whom I had spent nearly a week in the District 7 apartment is gone. His endless stream of chatter has vanished from the world, never to be heard again. All those times I wished he’d go away because I couldn’t stand how overwhelming he was, all those times that I was grateful he was Pitch’s tribute and not mine . . . how I wish I could take them all back.

And Pitch. . . .

I look over at my former mentor. Staring straight at the computer screen, he takes one long, deep breath. After several seconds, he slowly lets it back out. His eyes still focus on the screen, where the stats read straight 0% all across and a large, capitalized “DECEASED” is stamped in the screens. Pitch takes off his monitoring device and sets it on the table. He takes several more deep breaths, then glances over at me. “I’ll see you later, Juniper,” he says before he gets up and leaves the room.

My chest is empty as I stare at the station Pitch just left. Green is dead and Pitch is no longer mentoring with me. I am alone. And as much as I want to burst into tears right now over the tribute’s death, I know that I have to remain strong for Rosa, who remains living, . . . and also for Pitch. He has his grief to deal with, and I can’t burden him with my own.

I turn back to my computer.

Five tributes left.

And once more, I receive an alert on my computer:

JUNIPER SADIK

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO CELEBRATE THE FINAL FIVE AT 5:00 PM THIS EVENING.

PLEASE MEET AT THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE TRAINING CENTER TO BE ESCORTED TO THE PARTY AT 4:15 PM.

YOU ARE EXCUSED FROM THIS EVENT ONLY IF YOUR TRIBUTE IS IN CRITICAL CONDITION ( < 20 % ) OR IS IN IMMEDIATE DANGER.

I really don’t want to go even though I know it’s not an optional engagement. The lack of specifics about when and where the party will be unnerves me.

And . . . do I go alone? I don’t have anyone anymore. Pitch is out, and I can’t possibly ask him to come with me right now. It would be cruel. That means I’ll go to the party without his guiding presence—or his protection—when I’m there. Nevermind, I’ll figure it out eventually. I think of how I was so adamant to not be babysat when I first arrived her. Things have seriously changed in a little over a week. Now I feel like I can’t go anywhere alone because it is entirely unsafe. How foolish I was to want to be independent so quickly!

I watch Rosa and Nicola for the next few hours until it’s inevitable. Elijah is already gone, and Lady left an hour ago. The District 4 mentors haven’t been around for quite some time. I need to go get ready for the party, whether I like it or not.


	43. Chapter 43

One would think that the shower would be the perfect place to mourn the loss of Green, with the warm water to comfort you and to wash away the tears that fall. But I void of emotion. There are no tears. Instead I can only think dully of the horrors that await me at the “Final Five” party. How can I stand there with people celebrating the death of Green? Not that they were rooting for him dead specifically (though no doubt many of them were) but it was his death that kicked off the party. His death was the reason that this celebration is happening.

I find the gloves in my wardrobe and slip them on, then I find a dress that matches. Black. But I don’t want to make them think that I’m going to a funeral—even though I should be—so I tie a gold sash around my waist. Then I remove the gold shoelaces from a pair of designer shoes I never once touched, and I thread them into my boots. I match a simple gold necklace and earrings. (I did not have my ears pierced before entering the arena, but when I woke from all the repairs they did upon my victory, I found that, oddly enough, there was a hole in each of my ear lobes.) To hide the dark circles under my eyes, I apply minimal makeup. Unlike the Capitol citizens, I have no desire to draw attention to myself. I tuck a book into my purse for company.

Must go now. I force myself out of my bedroom and into the hallway.

Pitch is standing by the elevator.

“Hey,” I say. Then I realize that he’s showered and dressed up. “Where are you going?”

“To the party with you,” he says.

I pause and stare at him for several seconds. He fiddles with the cuff of his jacket.

“Pitch . . . no. I can’t . . . _You_ can’t.”

“Juniper, I can’t let you go by yourself,” he says.

“Yes, you can,” I say. “You’ve just lost—”

“No, I’m not letting you go there by yourself,” he insists.

“I won’t be there by myself,” I say. “I’ll stick with Elijah. Our tributes are in an alliance anyhow.”

“Elijah! You don’t want to be with Elijah in public. He can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Fine then. I’ll hang with Lady.”

“Lady is nice, but she doesn’t want to—Oh, just listen. I’m going with you. I can’t just sit here and wallow in misery, okay? So I might as well go with you.”

“Maybe you should go do one of your nature walks or something, Pitch, because they’re going to grill you about Green,” I say. As soon as the words come out, I realize how rude they are. Possibly cruel. I didn’t mean them to be that way.

Pitch pushes the button for the elevator. “I’ve been around long enough to know what they’re going to say,” he says calmly. “And also what they’re going to do. I’m not letting you go alone.”

He meets my eyes now, and we don’t say anything for a moment. At last, I look away.

“I keep wondering how you do it,” I say as I lean against the wall. The elevator arrives and opens, but neither of us go inside. “How you have the strength to deal with all this bullshit.”

“I’d like to tell you that there’s some great secret or that I’m just some emotionally strong person, but the reality is that I can do it because I have no other choice,” he admits heavily. Neither of us move as the elevator doors close without us.

“So you say. But you never fall apart.”

“Ah. I never fall apart in front of anyone else, especially the public eye,” he corrects me. “As I told you before, you just get through your first year and you’ll be better able to control yourself. So that you’re going after the punching bag in the privacy of the mentor room and not the mechanical deer in the middle of a public park.”

I roll my eyes. But when I look back at him, I realize that he’s serious. That’s the strategy. Punch the punching bags, not the deer. It’s not a matter of strength but of self-control. Or, perhaps, self-preservation. Because if you fall apart in public, it will only make your pain worse.

“And yet you’re willingly going to a party where people will keep asking you about Green. Not just that—they’ll pretend that they care but only mock his death,” I point out. “You can stay here and have a mental breakdown and no one will know.”

“Let me worry about myself, Juniper, okay?” he says.

“And let me worry about me,” I retort. Then I lean over and press the elevator button. “I’m fine. I’ll go by myself.”

But when the elevator comes, we both step inside and I know that Pitch isn’t going to be leaving my side tonight. Relief washes through me, but with it comes a wave of guilt. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t need to be at this party. He’d be out in some park somewhere or taking a walk by the river. But instead he’s plunging into the mouth of Hell in order to make sure that I’m not alone. I’m grateful and ashamed at the same time. I can’t look at him.

“I’d like to hold your hand tonight, if that’s okay,” he says as the elevator slows down.

I reach out and slip my hand in his, not certain if he’s saying it for my comfort or his own. Ultimately it doesn’t matter. One of us needs it—maybe both—and I’m not going to deny it.

The elevator doors open and reveal my fellow “Final Five” mentors along with several lower-level Hunger Games officials and training center coordinators. They all take us in when we arrive (well, all except Elijah, who I’m certain is listening to us approach regardless), and when we stop, one of the officials greets us warmly.

“Pitch, glad you’re joining us today,” she says with a smile. Sometimes when some of the Capitol citizens talk, I feel like they’re all dimwitted morons. But other times, they seem like genuine people. Perhaps it’s because this person is dressed more modestly without the flair and pizzazz of most Capitolites that I’m more inclined to believe she means what she says.

“Thank you,” he replies kindly.

The woman also smiles at me, and I give her a small smile back. It’s the most I can muster.

Then it’s time to go. Pitch and I were “fashionably late,” and I think it’s strained some of the training center coordinators who try to keep to the schedules as much as possible.

We are loaded up into a limousine outside of the training center. It’s spacious enough that the unexpected mentor isn’t crowding things (though they likely anticipated he would be joining me anyhow), and there’s even an avox to serve us whatever we want. The District 4 mentors order a couple of fancy drinks that are loaded with sugars and flavors to hide the taste of alcohol. Lady of District 10 declines the offer. Elijah gets a soda. I only want water, and I barely even drink any. Pitch ends up finishing it off after telling the avox he doesn’t need anything. The interior of the limo is the fanciest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. The leather seats are soft, and you can choose the temperature so you’re never too hot or cold when you sit down. There are televisions (thankfully turned to the news and not to the Hunger Games, though there is plenty of coverage still), and little garbage chutes so you can drop your drink or napkin or whatever into it when you finish. There is even a little conveyor belt that delivers the drinks and snacks so that nobody is forced to get too close to the avox.

Apparently they go above and beyond for the Final Five mentors, and we are being treated with the highest respect. It’s suspicious, honestly, and I’m apprehensive about what is to come.


	44. Chapter 44

This party is much smaller than the others we went to, but I can tell the moment I set foot in the door that it’s also much more dangerous. It’s a predatory pool of guests who are swarming around us, eager to pull us apart and dig in. Once more, I’m introduced to dozens of people whose names and faces I’ll never remember, though some seem familiar and I wonder if I was introduced previously and forgot. Still, I nod politely and say polite things while wearing a polite smile because that’s what I’m supposed to do. The entire time, I cling to Pitch’s hand and don’t let go. And Pitch does the same.

The flurry of activity is a stark contrast to the last few days of relative solitude in the mentor room of the training center. People push and crowd around and want to be in the presence of us victors, like we’re national celebrities or something. And I guess we are. We’re not the only celebrities here, though; I recognize politicians and musicians and actors, though I don’t know them all by name, and there are even more whose names I don’t know. This party is by invite only, and the list is much more elite than the last.

“Juniper, you must be so proud of little Rosa,” people say as they cling to me, trying to shake my hand or give me a hug or touch my face, all without permission. They don’t give me the option to grant it, even if I wanted to. It’s not my choice anymore.

They dig into Pitch, too. “Green was an interesting kid. I’m surprised he made it as far as he did,” they say, or something to that effect. “You made it to the top eight at least.” Or sometimes, “I put a bet on him even when the odds were not in his favor.”

They like to remind us that they had or have faith in our tribute. And that they have spent money to support them. The last part is added almost like a warning despite that they say it with smiles and encouragement and congratulations.

Televisions remind us constantly of what’s going on. It’s evening, so the Careers aren’t going hunting right now as they linger within the fog. They’re not doing so hot, either, but they have the fortitude to carry on. And the Gamemakers are not going to be sending muttations or releasing events while this party is in full swing. Still, people watch with eagerness, chatting about various goings-on within the arena and catching up with old friends.

“It’s so sad that little District 7 tribute died, but we all knew he wasn’t going to make it,” I hear someone say to her friend.

“It’s a miracle he made it as far as he did,” replies the friend.

Later, I hear someone comment about it wasn’t a bad thing that the District 1 tribute, Joy, died when she did. “She was really not meshing with the District 4 tributes. Their spirits didn’t align.”

“How long is this party?” I whisper to Pitch.

“Dinner hasn’t even started,” he replies.

Dinner?! We have to sit down and eat dinner with these monsters?!

Pitch must sense my growing anger because he pulls me closer to him and squeezes my hand hard. “Hang in there.”

Okay, fine. I will. But only because Pitch is right next to me. I am so glad I did not come alone. I never would have made it through the evening. What would they do if I had a complete breakdown right here? As I watch the partygoers with their obnoxious wigs and garish outfits talk about how exciting it was that a teenage girl was ripped to piece of national television by a Capitol-manufactured fog monster, I know that a breakdown would never be forgiven.

Dinner finally comes, and they must have expected Pitch because there is a place setting for him. Several large, round tables fill a spacious room that could only have been made with these sorts of parties in mind. Large swaths of fabric drape each table, with elegant and ridiculously expensive place settings in front of each chair. A centerpiece decorates each table, though none of them rise high enough to block conversation back and forth. Avoxes take guests to the tables and show them their assigned seating. It seems to be entirely random until I realize that they have intentionally seated the mentors at different tables so that no two mentors are together—with the exception of Pitch and myself.

I thank the avox as she motions to our seats. She bows politely and vanishes to seat the next guests.

Pitch pulls out the chair for me, and I take a seat. He settles in next to me. There are eight other place settings at this table. And in the center is an elaborate golden re-creation of the arena, though of course not in entirety. In the center are several glittering trees with the smallest golden leaves like little flakes, and draped around them are walkways and pathways and platforms. I’m watching it absently for several moments before I realize what it is, and then it’s hard to look at it. Instead I focus on the empty chairs and their pristine place settings with silver goblets and china plates. Over the course of about ten minutes, they are filled up with a cast of people in an assortment of strange outfits from tall, towering wigs to pointy-shouldered jackets. It’s like everyone is trying to outdo the next person, and no one is really winning because everything is so ludicrous.

And who should be seated next to me but Quintus Laurentinus?

 _Okay,_ I tell myself. _You’ll be able to get through this. It’s just a couple of hours. You’ve been able to survive worse things than a bad dinner party._

But I’m not sure I have. I’ve never really been to a dinner party like this, for starters, but no party I’ve gone to has been to celebrate murdering children and teenagers.

The first course is appetizers. Not sure what they are. But as everyone is enjoying their food, I feel Quintus’ hand on my thigh.

The second course is a vegetable soup. I’m politely trying to follow a long-winded spiel about a woman’s adventure in the shopping mall, only to feel that Quintus’ hand is massaging my leg. I wince and try to move my leg ever so slightly—give a bit of a hint that I don’t want this—but it doesn’t stop.

The third course, a small fish plate, requires him to move his hand from my leg, and I can relax ever so slightly as I take small bites of my food. The conversation now focuses on the educational systems for elementary schools and the problems one man is having with the PTA board. But in between courses, the hand returns.

The fourth course is the main course (maybe?), a fillet mignon with asparagus spears. Not that I know what filet mignon is. I only heard people refer to it as this name, and as soon as I taste it, I instantly decide that I like it. I take the opportunity to move my chair a hair closer to Pitch since Quintus’ hand is currently holding his utensils.

The fifth course is lamb with mint sauce and a small serving of potatoes. Now the conversation starts getting a little uncomfortable. I could listen to people ramble about their shopping experiences and how they had to argue with their kid’s teacher, but the alcohol has been poured freely and people finally begin to open up about why they’re really here. The Hunger Games, of course.

“How are you and Pitch handling this?” one woman asks. “It must be hard with your tribute still a contender but his is out.”

By “out” of course she means “dead.” But these vapid people do not have the emotional intelligence to care about such things.

I take a drink of water to wash down the bite of potato I tried. “It’s still pretty recent,” I say, which isn’t a lie. “Maybe I’ll have an answer to that tomorrow.” I try to be jovial, but I probably come across as abrasive.

“Is it true that you two have been taking time off from work every now and again to, you know, enjoy each other’s company?” Another woman asks, leaning in to hear the details. Ugh. This is so beyond appropriate. Why do these people think they can ask these questions?

Because they can, I remind myself. For the same reason that I have some asshole’s hand on my thigh and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Pitch must’ve overheard the question because his hand is back in mine and he gives it a squeeze.

I decide to play dumb. “Oh, yeah, we spend a lot of time together in the mentor room. Not really taking time off from work, though,” I tell her.

This earns a bit of a giggle between the woman and her friend.

The sixth course is something that they call “punch romaine” though it looks more like a slushy than anything else. It tastes sweet—and I can tell that there is something else in here. “Rum,” Pitch tells me casually. But it’s a warning, so I stop drinking it.

The rum is really starting to affect people, though. A man comments on how ugly another woman’s hat is, which sends everyone into a bit of a frenzy as they try to settle the debate.

The seventh course is roasted pigeon on garden cress. It’s okay but I can’t help but think about the little birds waddling around the asphalt and digging through trash that’s fallen out of bins. Quintus’ hand moves towards my inner thigh. I want to leave now. It’s harder to breathe. I need fresh air.

The eighth course is vegetables in vinaigrette sauce. The people at the table begin to talk about which death so far has been the best. Right now, half of them are saying that it was Joy’s, but there are also some good contenders in the bloodbath. I’m disgusted by the way they so casually talk about this between bites of food.

The ninth course is duck liver, though it has a fancy name I can’t pronounce. I don’t like the texture. Nor do I like the way Quintus smiles at me now that he’s had a fair bit of alcohol in him and has decided that he doesn’t need to be discrete. The conversation is about which tribute should win. Rosa’s name comes up several times, but it’s more of a novelty. I don’t know if they really want her to be a winner as much as they think she’s “an adorable little thing.” They’re rooting for Fjord or Oceana from District 4. Except for one man who thinks that Nicola would be a wonderful victor. I wonder if I’m supposed to do anything to make Rosa seem more appealing, but I’m frozen with fear and such severe discomfort as Quintus’ hand begins to move higher on my leg.

The tenth course is peaches in chartreuse jelly. This, I am told, is fruit in liqueur. It’s okay because I have no appetite as the others try to get Pitch to tell them which tribute he’s rooting for now that Green is out of the Hunger Games.

The eleventh course is assorted fresh fruits and cheeses. Damn, will these people never stop eating? Quintus rubs my leg. Pitch puts his arm around my shoulder and casually pulls me closer now that both of us are no longer making a pretense of eating. I’m half falling out of my chair, but I’m okay with it.

The final course is coffee or tea, which I turn down because I’m afraid I’ll puke if I try to put anything in me.

“You must spend so much time together,” Quintus now finally addresses me directly as he adds a little sugar into his coffee. “Certainly you need a break from Pitch. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

There’s no real offer there. I don’t have a choice.


	45. Chapter 45

Quintus leads me out onto a balcony overlooking the city streets far below. The lights and clamor of the nightlife contrast starkly with the serenity of a District 7 evening. I think of all the people down there who are enjoying their world of the Hunger Games like it’s another sporting event. They’re going to parties of their own, getting drunk, exchanging stories of their favorite moments in the arena, and waiting eagerly for the next episode of bloodshed. And here I am, a million miles away, wrapped up in a nightmare of my own, never able to escape the Hunger Games no matter how close or far I am from the arena. The only comfort I have right now is that Quintus and I are not alone out here.

“I’ve always admired you, Juniper,” he tells me as he leans casually against the rail of the balcony.

“Mmm,” I acknowledge without looking at him. I pretend to be intrigued with the night sky. The last glimmer of orange has vanished, and the stars are beginning to shine. They’re not as bright as they are at home—the pollution of the city interferes—but they’re still there if you let your eyes become accustomed to the darkness.

Quintus pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I suppress a shudder.

“So strong, right from the beginning. One of the biggest contenders,” he says. He’s staring at me, and even without his touch, it’s uncomfortable. “I always had my money on you, even when others thought you were just another tribute. But you were not, were you?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

“You don’t need to be so humble around me,” he chides. “That’s not what I admire about you. That’s not the feisty tribute that drew me in.” He is watching my reaction very carefully now, and I don’t bother turning away from the horizon I’m admiring. If I look at him, I’ll cringe, or worse—I’ll be so upset I won’t be able to look him in the eye. He’s stroking my cheek now. Then he grabs my chin a little too roughly and turns me so that I’m facing him.

In a sudden flare of fury, I stare him dead in the eye, pouring all the hatred I cannot possibly say into my solid glare.

He flinches, but then a smile slips across his lips. “There she is,” he says.

I pull away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He seems to like it, if the ever-widening grin means anything. Fine, whatever. As long as he doesn’t touch me.

“Yes, that’s the girl I saw in the arena.”

I turn back to the edge of the balcony and stare out at the city again. I try to focus on the twinkling lights surrounding us. This building is the tallest in this region, so the view is splendid, if you like this sort of thing. I can still feel where his fingers grabbed onto my face, and I wish I could wash it away.

Quintus leans against the rails next to me as though he is trying to take in the same view. “The Hunger Games are almost over. What are you doing when it’s finished?”

The obvious answer is that I’m going home. However, I don’t think that it’s the one he wants to hear, and since I still don’t know how to navigate these strange woods, I’m afraid that if I anger him, he’ll take it out on me. Or someone near me. Yet I also don’t want to commit to staying in the Capitol, especially if it means that I’ll inadvertently commit to spending more time with him. So I say the only thing that sounds like it’ll give me a bit of a reprieve:

“I plan on showing Rosa the ropes. She’ll be in the hospital for awhile, and I don’t plan on leaving her side, and then we’ll see what happens after that.”

“And if she doesn’t make it?” There’s amusement in his tone. Is he trying to get me riled up so he can see the ‘feisty tribute that drew me in’? Because if so, it’s working.

“That’s not an option,” I snap.

“Alright,” he says. “When she wins, you will contact me. I’ll send you my information.”

“Yeah, sure,” I respond. Because if I say no, I know that he’ll pull some strings and Rosa will be dead.

Quintus moves his hand over to mine on the rail and places his on top of it. “In the meantime. . . .”

A wild cry of excitement flares up inside the apartment. One that draws all attention away from any conversations. Everyone on the balcony turns and people begin to eagerly scramble indoors as the shouts and cheers and exclamations spread throughout the partygoers. My monitoring device hasn’t vibrated, but I don’t care. Something bad is happening, and my heart is pounding wildly as I follow the others inside and to a large wall of television screens where people are packed shoulder-to-shoulder as they watch.

I had thought the tributes were safe because we were distracted with a party and the Gamemakers wouldn’t throw something at them, but I was wrong. Right now is prime time for a Gamemaker driven event when they know that everyone who is anyone is watching. The alcohol will encourage them to spend money to keep their favorite tributes alive.

And now I see Rosa and Nicola running for their lives as the walkway begins to fall apart underneath them. Boards give way with every step, collapsing and clattering into the great foggy nothingness below.


	46. Chapter 46

Pitch finds me and I feel his arm wrap around my shoulders. Right now, I’m so on edge that I don’t know if I want him to let me go or to hold me tighter. The delicacies I just nibbled on for dinner are threatening to well up in the back of my throat. Whatever qualms I have about Quintus vanish as I watch Rosa struggling to keep from falling as the boards slip out from underneath her. Nicola is a half-step behind her. Both girls run so hard that they struggle to breathe. Sweat glitters on their foreheads in the light of the moon above them.

Rosa begins to slide off her backpack. Is it slowing her down? No, she keeps holding it and uses a last burst of speed to race over to where a branch of a large tree overhangs the walkway. Then she swings the bag up by one strap, catches it around the branch so that the other strap dangles down on the far side of the branch, and uses both straps to pull herself upward in one swift motion just as the boards fall out underneath her feet. Her body trembles, her chest heaves. If she had wanted to tell Nicola what she was doing, she wouldn’t have been able to afford the energy. Nicola is still running, boots slapping against the boards. She starts to lose her foothold.

“Nic-cola,” Rosa pants, but it’s barely more than a whisper. Rosa is safe in the tree, her legs wrapped around the sturdy branch and her backpack sitting before her.

Nicola sees one opportunity—one chance to save herself—and she takes it. With the last stable step, she launches herself off the walkway entirely and freefalls towards a platform about twenty feet below her.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Then with a heavy BOOM! she lands squarely on the platform. Her feet give out underneath her, and she tumbles to her hands and knees. She is injured, but alive. Like Rosa, she can barely breathe. Gasping for breath and wincing in pain, she curls up in a ball on her side. The backpack, long forgotten, is askew on her back. A heavy landing. I’m surprised she is alive.

The camera pulls back a little so that we can see that her platform is connected to a mid-level walkway. The upper level that they had so expertly navigated for the past several days is gone entirely. And with the lower level consumed in fog and the Cornucopia ruled by an unseen monster, it’s very clear that they are forcing the tributes to come closer and closer together.

After focusing a few long seconds on Nicola crying quietly to herself, we’re given another look at Rosa, still stunned and in the tree. She’s still trembling, but she has a better grasp on her breathing. After several minutes, she begins to slowly inch backwards so that she is closer to the trunk of the tree and balanced less precariously on the branch. And as she does so, she pulls her bag closer and closer to her.

With the immediate excitement died down, the guests are beginning to exchange remarks between each other.

“That was so exciting!”

“My heart almost stopped. Oh. My. God!”

“Wow, both those tributes deserve to be in the top five.”

“I can’t _wait_ to see the finale!”

“I just got my nails painted—see the little trees and walkways—that is in honor of this arena. And the funny thing is that I just broke this nail here. That’s almost like the walkway that just broke!”

“I don’t know which one to root for! Rosa is so cute but Nicola has great hair.”

“Districts 5 and 7 got some really strong contenders this year.”

I look down at my monitoring device. My arm is shaking so badly that Pitch grabs onto it for stability so that I can read the screen. Rosa is down a few percent in her stamina, but otherwise her health remains stable. Nicola, on the other hand, is at 52% health. I am not certain what the damage is, but I don’t think she’s going to be able to walk very easily, if at all. A twenty-foot jump is tough on its own, but carrying the added weight of a backpack only made it more difficult.

But they’re both alive. Rosa is alive and, though shaken, unharmed. That’s the important thing.

We are treated now to views of what’s going on with the other three tributes. The District 10 tribute, Phil, is hiding in a tree house, completely unaware of just what happened around him. The District 4 tributes, Fjord and Oceana, are having dinner and watching the stars. They, too, are not aware of what just occurred and appear to be taking it easy to rest their weary bodies and nurse wounds after their encounter.

“I don’t think it’s time yet,” Fjord is saying. “I don’t want to split up too soon.”

“Right, but I also don’t want to have to take you on in open combat,” Oceana says simply. “You will win, hands down. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Fjord grunts. “Not my fault you prefer ranged weaponry. Should have tried your hand at something a little more suitable for the Hunger Games.”

Oceana rolls her eyes. “We’ll just split up and be careful about it. It would be dumb for either of us to get injured—more injured—by a tribute. Especially if we’re going to have a final showdown. It’ll be way too easy if it’s lopsided. Also not fair.”

“You’re only saying that because of your leg,” Fjord says.

“ _’You’re only saying that because of your leg_ ,’” Oceana mimics him in a sing-song voice. “No, I’m saying it because it’s true. I don’t want my final battle to be one sided, whether I live or die. Nothing honorable about that either way. Give me a couple days to rest up while you go kill the rest of them—I’ll let you have the most kills, I don’t care—and then at least let’s have a decent finale.”

“So you want me to do the dirty work while you sit around?” Fjord asks.

“I’m saying that you can have more kills than me. That’s what you wanted, _remember_? Or has this all tired you out too much that you don’t care anymore?”

“Of course I care,” Fjord puffs up, an offended look on his face. “But by going out there, I have a better chance of getting injured. Which would put _you_ at an advantage in a final battle.”

“ _Or_ ,” says Oceana. “It will put us on an even playing field.” Is she really that injured or is she trying to mislead him?

Fjord glares at her.

She shrugs. “Fine, whatever. I’ll take them all down by myself. Then I’ll be victor _and_ the one who killed the most.”

That doesn’t sit well with Fjord, either. “Can we please talk about this in the morning?”

That seems to be the end of that because the camera cuts away, showing us once more the other three tributes. Rosa is eating dinner and drinking water. Nicola is either sleeping or passed out. Phil has fallen asleep with the knife he used to kill Green still clenched in his hands just in case he is woken up by an unwanted visitor.

I’m relieved when I see a few of the guests are beginning to gather themselves together and say their goodbyes. It’s a long, drawn-out procedure, but after about fifteen minutes, the first guests are heading out the door. I look up hopefully at Pitch.

“We have to wait until we’re dismissed,” he whispers.

Ugh, fine.

It’s difficult staying out of the way of everyone as they hug each other goodbye and wish each other well, as though going home and sitting in front of the television poses a danger. I think bitterly of the five kids fighting for their lives while these assholes kiss each other on the cheek and promise to call if anything fun happens in the arena. Many people stop to wish me well, and some of them seem to genuinely mean it. But I disregard anything they say; it’s all shallow nothings.

Quintus is nearby, talking with people and lingering. I’m more than happy when Elijah heads over and inadvertently blocks the view.

“Well, that was exciting.” There’s a touch of sarcasm in his words.

“I’m exhausted,” Pitch admits, skirting around getting into a conversation with the District 5 mentor.

An avox appears and beckons for us to follow. We do as instructed and wait in line for the elevator. When we’re finally on the ground floor and heading out the door, I give one last look.

“Where’s Lady?” I ask, looking around.

“She got drunk and threw up on someone,” Elijah says.

“Oh. I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Elijah shrugs. “Bet her $100 she couldn’t aim her vomit at a Capitolite of my choice. She won the bet but ended up having to leave early to clean herself up.”

“Damnit, Elijah,” Pitch says.

Elijah only shrugs again. “Have to entertain myself somehow. Not like I can see the televisions.”

I grin. If only it could have been Quintus she threw upon on. But, of course, that would never happen. Elijah doesn’t tell us who he chose, but I doubt the person was as powerful as someone like that man.

Once we’re safely in a cab (the limo apparently was only a one-way ticket), Pitch unwraps his arm from around my shoulders. He’s sitting in the middle between Elijah and me. The drive back to the training center is thankfully silent. The party is over. I can breathe again. There will be many more parties in the future, I’m sure, but perhaps I’ll eventually be able to navigate through them more confidently.


	47. Chapter 47

Back at the training center, I take another shower. I’m not in a rush so I take my time to scrub my skin raw in an effort to erase the feeling of Quintus’ hands on my body. It doesn’t matter where he touched me, exactly, because I feel dirty all over. The hot water gently burns my skin, and I choose the most abrasive soap I can find from the assortment of soaps stocked in the pumps on the wall. I cleanse my hair twice over because the first time just didn’t seem good enough.

At last I emerge from the shower. Water drips from my body onto the thick rug, and I stand there for several seconds to gather my bearings.

I am safe. I am alive. Everything is going to be okay.

But my body still moves slowly as I reach for a towel and wrap it around myself. I move slowly to wipe myself dry. Finally I hang my towel on the side of the bathtub I’ve never used and go into my room to find my clothes. Nothing is right. I don’t want to wear my shorts anymore because I can see my own thighs, and that only makes me remember. So I pull on a pair of long pants to sleep in. And then I pull a sweatshirt so that I’m covered all over. It’s more comfortable. Safer.

My damp hair soaks into the hood of the sweatshirt as I pull on my boots and tie the laces, now replaced with their original black. It seems silly to sleep in shoes, but I want to be ready at a moment’s notice. I pause to set my alarm clock so that I wake up in five hours—I want to be awake when the tributes begin to rise—but before I get into bed, I realize that I have forgotten my book near the elevator where I had flung my purse after getting in for the night.

I open the bedroom door and toddle off to the elevator when I nearly run right into Pitch.

“Cold?” he asks.

I grunt.

“Everything okay?”

“I just need my book.” I lean over and pick up the purse. My book is tucked safely inside. I know that I’ll never have a chance to read when I’m at these parties, but having the book by my side makes me feel safer. It’s stupid, I know.

With the book in hand, I turn around and am about to head back. I open my mouth to wish Pitch goodnight when I see that his eyes are red and watery. He’s been crying. But he doesn’t say anything about it to me, and I almost don’t say anything to him. But what would be the point to pretend that none of this is happening? Isn’t that what the Capitol wants us to do, to stuff it all down and pretend that everything is dandy?

“Pitch, if you need to talk . . .”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“I mean, I doubt that, but if that’s what you want to go with,” I say. I cock my head and watch him.

He sighs heavily. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, do you want a hug? As a friend, and not as a fake lover,” I add.

He doesn’t answer with words but pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. His heart beats frantically against me and despite its frenzy, it relaxes me. It says that he’s just as much freaked out and terrified and saddened as I am, even if he can’t put it into words. I’m not sure I can, either. It’s far easier to express it with my fists than with my voice, as my battered knuckles remind me whenever I look at the ragged skin. I close my eyes and hold onto him. I disappear into the embrace, drifting away to a time and place that was happier, perhaps an entirely different world altogether. Time passes, but I’m not sure how much. Pitch is crying into my hair, his tears falling onto my freshly washed scalp. It doesn’t bother me. Nothing about Pitch’s touch bothers me, not like the way that others’ do. I don’t feel gross or unclean right now, even though I know he’s just messing up my clean hair.

“You need to get to sleep,” he finally says, though he is still holding onto me.

“I can try,” I respond. I don’t want to tell him that I plan to be up early enough to be back in the mentor room by dawn because I don’t want to break this moment.

“Rosa still needs you. I can’t keep you up any longer,” he insists. It takes several moments before he slowly releases his grip. He wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve before he looks down at me. “Thanks, Juniper,” he says quietly.

“Anytime.” _Nice and awkward_ , I internally kick myself.

Pitch just chuckles. “If you mean that?”

“Yeah,” I say.

He hesitates. “I’d sleep better if you were with me.” Then he adds with a hint of tease, “As a friend, and not as a fake lover.”

“Only because you phrased it like that. And I’m also bringing my book.”

However, there is no time to read because once we’re both tucked into his bed, I fall asleep immediately. For the first time in a long time, I sleep soundly and without dreams of any sort. It’s the most refreshing sleep I’ve had in weeks now. And I could have slept forever except for a sudden knock on the bedroom door.


	48. Chapter 48

We both sit up groggily. I look at the clock. It’s 5:17 AM. With sleep clogging my brain, I try to figure out why someone is trying to wake me up at this hour.

Pitch groans and rubs his head. “Who the hell is that?” he mumbles. But then he calls out, “Come in.”

Which was probably the wrong thing to say because when the door clicks unlocked at the sound of Pitch’s voice and swings wide open, it’s none other than our dearest District 7 escort, Lala. From somewhere behind her comes a violent buzzing noise, angry and aggressive. My heart thumps and I check my monitoring device, but it’s not that.

Lala stomps into the room.

“What the _hell_ is the matter with you two?” she demands. At this early hour, she is fully dressed and ready to go for the day. Pitch and I, on the other hand, are clearly not. And it’s very easy to see what she might think had happened. This time, she may be fully justified in coming to that conclusion were it not for the fact that I was fully dressed in pants and a sweatshirt. “And why is there that _outrageous_ alarm coming from Juniper’s bedroom?!”

“Shit, that’s my alarm clock,” I mumble as I untangle myself from the sheets and throw myself out of bed. Without bothering to give the escort a second look, I hurry out of the room, into the hallway, and then into my room next door, which I had left open last night when I went to retrieve my book. The alarm blares furiously, angry that I have ignored it for over fifteen minutes.

I shuffle back into Pitch’s room just in time to hear him snap at Lala, “It doesn’t _matter_ what we’re doing. I want to know what YOU are doing here.”

Lala does not like to be talked back to like that, even in the best of times. But now she’s completely unhinged. I sit down on the foot of the bed and stare at her.

“I was just coming back here to make sure things are in order when I heard that godawful noise from Juniper’s room. Of _course_ I had to come check up on you because who in their right mind can sleep through that,” she snaps at him. She comes closer, looming over us on the bed. But I straighten my shoulders and stare hard back at her. She continues, “If you spent half as much time focusing on your tributes as you do fucking each other, then maybe your tribute would still be alive, Pitch.”

I’m on her within a heartbeat. My body is on top of hers, pinning her beneath my legs, and my fist bashes into her jaw. All the anger and rage that I’ve stored up the past few days is coming lose. I don’t care if my knuckles hurt. Physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish in which we’ve been dwelling the last two weeks.

But before I can draw it back again, Pitch grabs me and throws me off her. I hit the wall with a crack and pain swells across my body. In the distance, I can hear Pitch yelling at Lala and Lala screaming right back, but they seem so far away. . . .

_“. . . terrible mentor, Pitch!”_

_“Shut the fuck up and call a doctor.”_

_“Don’t you dare tell me what—”_

_“Call a doctor, NOW!”_

_“What the hell did you do to her? Oh my GOD, Pitch. Did you—”_

_“If you don’t figure out how to use that damned phone in your hand, I will personally break you neck. . . .”_

_“. . . Hello? Yes, I need a doctor at apartment 7. . . .”_

And then as they grow more and more distant, I drift off into unconsciousness.

When I come to, I’m in Pitch’s bed again, but this time he’s not here. I crane my neck to see the clock, but the movement hurts and I start to feel nauseous. I test out my arms and legs to make sure I can still move them, and I can, though I feel weak and heavy. My fingers brush across my book lying near me, and I pick it up. It’s hard to concentrate, and my eyes are a little blurry. I give up after about thirty seconds. With nothing else to do, I stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell is happening.

It’s about an hour before Pitch comes back into his room, but there’s a middle aged woman right behind him. He’s explaining something to her, but I’m too confused by the presence of this strange woman to focus on their conversation. They both look relieved when they see that I’m awake, though Pitch hangs back while the woman comes right over to my side.

“Hey, Juniper, I’m Dr. Castillo.” She has a kind voice. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened?” I ask.

“You hit your head. Got a concussion,” she explains as she pulls up a chair and sits by my bedside. “But you’re healing up just fine. Got some good medicine into you.”

I furrow my brow. “Rosa?”

“Yes, Rosa is fine,” she says kindly. “It’s raining right now, and all of the tributes are resting up.”

“Day?”

“It’s Day 8.”

The eighth day already? It takes me a moment to backtrack. The last thing I remember, it was the morning of Day 7. I’ve been unconscious for . . . an entire day? Shit shit shit. What about Rosa? Is she actually okay? Is she really suffering and this woman doesn’t want to tell me? Is she dead?!

Dr. Castillo reaches out to something I can’t see against the headboard and pushes a button. Moments later, a calmness washes over me and I start to feel sleepy again, though I fight it with all that I can muster.

“Hang on there, Juniper,” Dr. Castillo reassures me. “You’re going to be fine. You just need to relax a bit.”

I stare at Pitch who is watching me quietly from the other side of the room. He offers me no explanation, no reassurance.

“You’re going to need to stay in bed for awhile, possibly a week.” Dr. Castillo is at least polite when she gives me this terrible news. I jerk around and look at her, ignoring the nausea that washes through me. I’m a mentor! How am I supposed to stay in bed? I have to get back to the mentoring room _now_! She puts a light hand on my shoulder as if that will keep me from jumping up, and in a way, it does. At least it distracts me for a second, allowing my brain to calm for a moment. Or maybe it’s whatever medication she’s pumping into me.

Once I’m calmer, she continues, “You suffered a concussion and you have two broken ribs. You’re on some good pain control right now, but we’re going to wean you off of it soon and replace it with something a little less addictive, okay?”

Fine, whatever. I don’t mind the pain. Can’t be worse than anything else going on here.

“I have to go to the mentoring room.” I finally push the words out of my mouth.

“You need to rest,” she says. “You can make your injuries worse.”

“If I stay here, my tribute may die,” I reply.

She studies me for a few seconds before standing up. “Give me a moment, okay,” she says. She leaves the room, motioning for Pitch to follow her.

Concussion and broken ribs? What the hell? Pitch . . . I remember him throwing me against the wall. That’s why he was hanging back, staying away from me.

And Rosa! Will she die because of me? Have I condemned her to a painful death because I am not there watching her every second?

At last the door opens again, and Dr. Castillo and Pitch return. Once more, the doctor takes a seat next to me while Pitch remains near the door.

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do, Juniper, but you need to follow it carefully,” she says. “If you don’t, then you are going to be required to stay in bed without exceptions.”

She lays out a plan that allows me to go to the mentor room—and the mentor room only—and back to the District 7 apartment. There is a strict schedule of how much fluid I need to drink, what meals I need to eat, and which medications I need to take. If I stray from even one of those things, I’ll be in lockdown in my bedroom. After surviving the Hunger Games, it doesn’t seem necessary to go through all of this rigmarole. Plenty of people have gotten concussions and broken ribs and ended up surviving for days without proper food and water. Then they got killed by completely unrelated things. But I’m so desperate to return to the mentor room that I agree to them all without questioning.

“The last thing is that we need to wean you off the sedation. I understand that you have some trouble controlling your temper, and I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you than it already is,” Dr. Castillo says. “So overnight while you are sleeping, we’re going to gradually decrease the amount of sedation. And you’re going to wear this.”

She pulls out a large piece of leather and begins to affix it to my arm.

“You’re . . . going to tie me to Pitch’s bed?” I ask.

“I’m going to prevent you from pulling out your IV line. Would you prefer if we move you to your room?” she asks.

“No, it’s fine. He can just sleep in my room instead.”

The leather slab covers my arm from wrist to armpit, hiding where the IV line enters my body so that I can’t pull it out. It’s a cumbersome apparatus that prohibits me from bending my elbow. As she fastens the leather with several clasps, Dr. Castillo reassures me that this happens sometimes when they have to discontinue sedation for patients. Sometimes, she says, people have to be tied down to the beds by every limb. She tells me that I’m lucky that I’m here in the privacy of my own apartment and not in the middle of a busy hospital.

“If you aren’t still wearing this in the morning, you won’t be able to return to the mentor room. As long as you keep following medical advice, you can continue with your duties,” she tells me as she secures the IV lines going into the pump that hangs on the headboard. I can’t see what she’s doing, but it sounds like she’s locking it in place to keep anyone (i.e., me) from ripping it apart. She then props pillows under my head so that I’m more comfortable.

At last, she pushes a little controller in my palm.

“The top button is for pain medication. We’re weaning you off of that particular one, as I said, and starting you on another, so you might feel a little discomfort as the stronger one wears off,” she explains to me. “The bottom button is for a sleeping aid. You’ll be allowed to have one press of that button to help you fall asleep. The right button is for your hydration and nutrients, but that’s pre-set and you won’t be able to control it. The left button is for if you need to eliminate your bladder.”

Eww. I’m both horrified and intrigued. There are several thin, clear lines going into me at various points; I didn’t even consider that one of them might serve that function.

Dr. Castillo stands up and puts back the chair before she turns to me and bids me a good evening.

“Thank you,” I say. Because I’m actually finding myself grateful for her work. Must be the medications she pumped in me to calm me down. She smiles at me, then she and Pitch head out the door, closing it behind them.


	49. Chapter 49

I’m tempted to press that sedation button right this moment so that when Pitch returns and attempts to explain what happened, I’ll be asleep and won’t need to deal with it. But since I don’t know what time it is, I don’t want to doom myself to a long night staring at the ceiling or fighting off nightmares because I wasted the sedation pump for a morning nap.

Pitch returns about ten minutes later and quietly closes the door behind him.

I want to be angry at him, but I can’t. I wish Dr. Castillo hadn’t given me the extra shot of calming medication because I need this anger to hold onto and keep myself afloat. I can’t even be angry about that, though, which I know logically would be very frustrating if I could feel as nearly frustrated as I should feel. It’s all so stupid and confusing.

Pitch sits down on the side of the bed. He studies my face for several seconds.

“I’m sorry, Juniper,” he says at last. “I needed to keep you from hurting her. I didn’t mean to mess you up in the process.”

Because I have no anger, I just stare intently at him.

He continues, “I knew the moment I threw you that it was too much. Lala was yelling in pain and then cursing at us both, and I almost punched her myself. I can’t really blame you, but . . . . You’re dangerous, Juniper. I don’t mean that I think you’re going to slit people’s throats at night or push them off of balconies, but your behavior is going to get you in trouble in ways that you don’t yet understand.”

“Can you spare me the lecture?” I ask.

“No, I can’t,” he says. “Because you’re going to get people killed. Not directly. I don’t think you’d do that. But when you’re out of control, they need to find a way to bring you back into control.”

“Rosa?” I croak.

“Rosa’s fine,” he says. “I promise you, when I checked about five minutes ago, she’s fine. They’re giving the tributes a couple days to heal—or giving Oceana a couple days to heal, at least—by keeping them quiet with rain. I don’t think this will impact Rosa, though I can’t guarantee it.

“Lala wasn’t supposed to be in the apartment when she was. Once the Hunger Games begin, the escort access is restricted to certain hours without the direct permission of the mentors they’re working with. Since neither of us requested to give her 24-hour access, she was only allowed to come in here between 8:00 AM and 8:00 PM. I don’t know what she was doing here at that hour, but she finally agreed to not tell everyone what happened if I didn’t tell anyone that she didn’t have permission to be in here at that time.”

I sigh. Lala is all about outward appearances, and I punched her. How the hell is she ever going to let that go? She already hated me to begin with.

“I told everyone that you came down with a 24-hour stomach bug,” he continues. “You are going to stick to that, okay.”

“And the stomach bug broke ribs and gave me a concussion?” I ask with whatever sarcasm I can muster.

“You puked so hard you broke your ribs. And then you hit your head on the toilet. I really don’t care, Juniper,” he says. “Just don’t tell everyone what happened, and don’t let them get suspicious and guess. If you ever want to survive, you need to be able to control yourself. Pick your battles carefully.”

“I think I did a damned good job picking battles. I didn’t break Quintus’ fingers when they were trying to go up my dress,” I snort.

“I’m not saying that you have to cut down the number of battles numerically, I’m saying you have to be logical about it,” he says. “Halving the number of people you punch won’t do a damned thing if you’re still punching powerful people. You need to cut that crap out and decide what things are really, honestly worth risking your life and lives of other people over.”

I stare up at the ceiling unable to say anything. There’s nothing I can say in response because he’s just going to shoot back some reply or another that will absolutely negate anything I say. The Capitol is allowed to spew forth filth and hatred and violence. Their licentious behavior goes completely unchecked. They can torture and kill and rape whoever they want, and we’re just supposed to roll over and let it happen. Doesn’t matter if we want to stand up for others or for ourselves; we’re damned to this hellish misery until we die. Really, truly die. The thing we fought so hard to escape is now our salvation.

Tears roll down my cheeks from my eyes. Are they from anger or sadness or pain or something else entirely? I don’t know. I don’t really _feel_ anything right now, at least not consciously. But I must be feeling something inside, somewhere.

Pitch leans over, grabs a tissue out of the box on the nightstand and gently wipes my face.

When will I get it through my head? When will I finally understand what Pitch keeps trying to tell me? Fairness doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that I don’t express myself in a manner that will bring the Capitol discontent. I can show them happiness and sadness, but only for superficial things. Any other emotions must be suppressed and buried away where they will never again see the light of day. I’ve never been that angry of a person. I was never an unhappy teenager. But ever since I was reaped, something inside me snapped and was released, exposing nothing but raw and uncontrolled rage that thrived within the arena. And since then, I’ve struggled to contain it. It bubbles just below the lid, waiting to froth over at any moment. The Capitol brought this on me, but they don’t have to clean up the mess. Ultimately it doesn’t matter when it started or who’s at fault. Pitch is right—I need to figure out how to control it.

“Okay,” I finally concede. “Okay.”

Pitch gives me a small smile.

“But,” I add. “I need help. I don’t know how to deal with them. Or with me.”

“I know. We’ll figure something out,” he agrees. “And I really am sorry about this.” He motions towards me, broken and strapped to the IV. “Dr. Castillo is a good doctor. She understands how much mentoring means to us and wants to make sure we are taken care of so we can take care of our tributes. And she doesn’t ask questions when she’s brought to the training center.”

Pitch then stands up. “You need anything else before I go to sleep?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry I took over your bed.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just go take over yours. Now get some sleep—it’s after 10:00 PM and the doctor said you have to be well rested.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I say as I push the sleep aid button on my controller. A flicker of a smile passes Pitch’s lips, and then my eyelids grow too heavy to keep them open. I hear him walk across the room. The door opens and closes, and that’s the last thing I remember.


	50. Chapter 50

The next morning, Dr. Castillo returns to check on me. She asks me how I slept, and I told her very well. It was only moderately well. I woke up once briefly and tried the bladder elimination button which was quite the experience, and then I fell asleep only minutes later. Otherwise my sleep was hazy and the dreams faint. I felt like I was sometimes too deep and other times too light. But overall, I’m feeling better today despite the discomfort in my ribs.

She watches me eat breakfast and drink water before unplugging the various lines that are going into my body. She hands me a pill vial. “This is for pain. No more than one every six hours.”

I roll the vial over in my hand but don’t recognize the drug name.

She waits outside the room while I take a shower and dress. Once she sees that I’m on my feet and not about to keel over, she nods, bids myself and Pitch a good day, and then leaves.

“Remember,” Pitch says. “Don’t tell anyone the truth.”

“I know, I know,” I grumble.

“Want me to go to the mentor room with you?” he offers.

“No, not really,” I lie.

Down in the mentor room, I take my place at the District 7 computer. It’s Day 9, and all five tributes—Fjord and Oceana from District 4, Nicola from District 5, Rosa from District 7, and Phil from District 10—are all alive. Fjord and Oceana have found a relatively dry little platform hidden from the trees. Water still drips through, so they used a tarp strung up above their heads to deflect the stray drops. Phil is still in his treehouse. Nicola has managed to drag herself to a small nook under a sturdy bough where she can stay dry if she wraps her reflective blanket around her body. And Rosa has settled into the wide branches of a thick deciduous tree whose leaves offer enough protection from the rain.

Rosa passes her time playing with the parachutes she got from the sponsorship gifts. She folds them and shapes them and then shakes them out to restart. It doesn’t look like she has any real intended use for them. Finally she stuffs one back in her pocket and uses the other one as a handkerchief to blow her nose. Gross, but resourceful.

Elijah eventually comes and sits next to me. “Ah, you’re alive. I thought that party totally knocked you out,” he says.

“Got a stomach bug,” I reply monotonously.

“Must’ve been something to require a doctor, but I suppose that’s none of my business,” he says.

“Yes, that is none of your business.” Though I think that if anyone would understand, it would be Elijah. I don’t say anything, even though I’d like to have someone appreciate what I’ve gone through and how much I hate what the Capitol has done to me. However the mentoring room is pretty empty with only the five of us. The others can easily listen in on our conversations without even trying to eavesdrop.

I slump back in my chair with a wince. Forgot about that injury.

Elijah clears his throat.

I start talking before he can say anything else: “How is Nicola?”

“She’s . . . alive. Broken tibia and fibula on the left leg. Right knee is messed up. Made a split for herself and is probably hoping that she’ll magically heal before she sees more action.”

The day continues on. I take breaks to lay on the couch as often as I can, per Dr. Castillo’s instructions. Then I return to watch the cameras show how the tributes are faring in the rain. Oceana receives a gift of medicine to help her wounds heal. She shares it with Fjord because, she says, they’re both injured and she wants the final fight to be as fair as possible. Good for her. If she wins, she’ll realize that nothing is truly fair.

An avox comes in and hand-delivers me lunch. It’s awkward, but I pretend that I don’t care as I take the tray from him. Sipping the juice, I watch Rosa strain to see between the trees. She stands up, always holding firmly to a solid branch, and watches the world around her. Does she understand that she may never have another view of the world again? Does she realize that her final hours may be approaching and this will be the last glimpse of life she has?

I send Rosa a pair of small binoculars. She spends the rest of the daylight hours birdwatching. Great. At least she’s keeping herself entertained.

And then I return back to the District 7 apartment for dinner.

Something smells good when I step into the apartment, and I am immediately famished despite the meal I had a couple hours ago. I hear avoxes scurrying around to get things in place and the clatter of dishes and silverware. Then there are voices I recognize. When I come around the corner, I see Pitch, Esther, and Isolde all waiting for the avoxes to finish their job.

“Hey,” I say. Their presence surprises me, but pleasantly so. Even Isolde is a welcomed site.

“Hi, Juniper,” Esther greets me with a smile. There’s still pain in her expression, but there’s also genuine happiness.

“Juniper! Lady of the hour. We heard about your little ‘stomach bug’” (air quotes included) “the other night and thought that we’d come cheer you up so that you’re not puking so hard you break ribs or, what was it again?”

Esther laughs. She who is so reserved and quite just lets out a loud laugh. “Hitting your head on the toilet and giving yourself a concussion.”

I shoot a look at Pitch. “You’re an asshole.”

He shrugs, but looks pretty proud of himself.

“By the way, Lala got admitted to the hospital the other night,” Isolde says. She plops down in the nearest chair, and the rest of us take it as our cue to follow suit. “Said you punched her in the face because she accidentally startled you.”

“Who’d you hear that from?” Pitch asks.

“Friend works in the hospital,” Isolde says casually.

“Great,” I say.

“It sounds like it,” Isolde agrees, even though I didn’t mean it that way. “Wish I could have been there to see it happen. How I’ve longed to punch my escort in the face.” She sighs dreamily.

I smile a little to know that I’m not the only person who has wished this. But then I understand what Esther and Isolde are doing here. Pitch must’ve invited them to help me figure out how to handle things. It’s a little irritating, but I did tell him that I needed help, so I can’t hold it against him.

The avoxes serve up a splendid dinner with salads, soups, mutton, and vegetables. The others have various drinks, but I’m required to drink 350 milliliters of an electrolyte syrup which is far too sweet for my taste buds and wash it down with a liter of water. It’s only after I drink it that Pitch tells me with a hint of amusement that I should have mixed them together first. I don’t even humor him with a comment.

Dessert is a simple ice cream which we take into the sitting room to enjoy as the avoxes clean up the dining room table.

“Where are you guys staying?” I ask Esther and Isolde. “Still in the training center or somewhere else.”

“Elsewhere,” Esther says. “We normally get kicked out as soon as our tribute dies.”

Isolde wiggles her eyebrows. “Pitch got a special allowance.”

Did he? He never told me that.

“Worked out. My apartment hasn’t been touched in more than a year. Didn’t even use it last year,” Pitch says. Because, I assume, I ended up living. I wonder where he went between my victory and when we returned back to District 7. “The place probably needs to be aired out and fumigated, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that.”

“How do you get an apartment?” I ask.

“They’ll provide you a real estate agent who will show you properties—usually virtually—and then you choose whichever one you like the best,” Esther explains. She sits curled up in a chair, bowl of ice cream balancing on her knee.

“But because you’re normally doing this after your first tribute has died, you just point at whatever doesn’t make you cry the most and go with it,” Isolde explains. “Some victors don’t have to mentor their first year, or they move to the Capitol before their first Hunger Games, or whatever. Then they have more time and freedom to choose a place more rationally.”

“But you can always move later, if you want,” Esther assures me.

“Did you have to mentor your first year?” I ask Isolde.

“Yeah,” she said. “My fellow mentors said I had to. Even though there are, like, _so many_ of them. They thought it would be great if Hammer and I were mentoring since we won back-to-back. It was both of our first years. And, needless to say, it was pretty shitty.”

“That’s the year Elijah’s tribute won, right?” Esther asks.

“Oh yeah,” Isolde rolls her eyes. “But it turns out that he doesn’t appreciate it if you tell him that he only won because you were such a newbie at mentoring.”

Geeze this conversation is so crass.

But I’m beginning to understand that everyone handles this in their own ways. It’s hard to really appreciate until you realize that this is one of the few ways people have of expressing themselves. The way that the mentors banter back and forth to each other is nothing more than an emotional shield erected to keep themselves from falling apart. From punching mechanical deer and mauling their escorts. It’s like how I allowed Rosa and Green to break everything they wanted in the apartment, except it’s not just a one-time release of pent-up emotion but a way to abate the constant drip of anguish and turmoil.

When the evening ends, Esther makes me promise to keep in touch, no matter what. I know she’s thinking that I’m going to go off the deep end if—when—Rosa dies. And Isolde makes me promise to include the two of them in my apartment hunting, even if I don’t ever want to see them ever again and I don’t feel like looking for an apartment. I agree to both their requests because I know that it was probably hard for them to show up at this place so soon after they lost their tributes. But they did it for me.


	51. Chapter 51

Pitch and I share the same bed again tonight. At first I’m nervous because I drank so much liquid before bed, but once I settle in next to him, careful not to bump or twist my body as I baby my injured ribs, I don’t care about it anymore.

Even though the medication that Dr. Castillo gave me is out of my system and my emotions are no longer dampened, I find that I hold no anger against Pitch for throwing me against the wall. Which sounds insanely wrong. In what world can someone break a person’s ribs and give them a concussion and be so easily forgiven? I add it to the mental list of things the Capitol does to us that doesn’t make sense. Perhaps I’d be angry if I weren’t so scared that I might have caused some real damage not to myself but to others.

It’s not even 10:00 PM but we’re both falling asleep. Dr. Castillo had told me that I’d need to get extra sleep until the effects of the concussion wore off, and I’d have to be very careful if I was going to also be going to the mentor room. Pitch falls asleep before me, and I curl into him as sleep takes me away, too.

In the morning, I slip out of bed without waking him, shower in my bathroom, and then eat breakfast as instructed before I go to the mentor room. It’s Day 10. Nothing has happened since Day 6. All five of us are uneasy as we prepare for something that is yet to come.

But nothing happens. Rosa explores some nearby trees, Nicola tries to keep her muscles limber, Phil dares to leave his treehouse, and Fjord and Oceana swap stories about District 4. It’s very boring. A good sort of boring.

“There’s an event going on in the farmer’s market,” Elijah explains to me as I eat lunch. “So they’re letting the tributes rest up until they have everyone’s full attention to the televisions.”

“What sort of event?” I ask.

“Oh, I think it’s a betting war,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“Sometimes people start betting on tributes and it gets ridiculous, so they hold events called ‘betting wars’ to see who will dare to put the most money on a tribute,” he explains. “It started a couple days ago, and the longer it goes on, the longer they allow the tributes to have a break because they don’t want any event to interfere with their money collection.

“Besides,” he adds bitterly. “It leaves the viewers at home in the Districts in complete suspense for a few days longer. Extra time to sit there and wonder if their child will be able to get out alive.”

“How long do they usually last?” I dare to ask.

“Two to three days,” he shrugs. “Maybe four. The longest one on record is seven days, but that was even before my time.”

“Does this happen every year?”

“Nah. Just when there are some good contenders and either of them could be the winner.”

“So . . . they’re betting on Oceana and Fjord?” I ask. My chest aches.

“Mostly. Sorry, Juniper, but I told you. Don’t get your heart set on your tribute winning. There’s no reason for them to let either of the other three win at this point,” he says.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems the last couple days that I haven’t been as concerned with Rosa as she sits there in relative comfort fiddling with supplies, weaving things with strips of tree bark, and eating good meals. Guilt rises in me as I wonder for the briefest of seconds if I could have done something to help her when I was sedated and tied to a bed because I couldn’t control myself. Did I cost my tribute a potential victory?

I can’t think like that.

I swallow, trying to push down the guilt. “Thanks for explaining,” I say.

“Yep. You’ll find that there are all sorts of ‘fun’ little side events that crop up every year,” he says.

“At the farmer’s market?”

“Some there, some elsewhere. Really, they just seem to drop whatever they’re doing in their pathetic little lives to spend money on murder.” He shrugs.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, dropping his volume a little. “Next time you break your ribs puking up your guts, make sure to go for the throat. Does a bit more damage than aiming for the face.”

Elijah stands up and heads back to his station.

“Thanks,” I reply meekly. But I’m not thankful at all. Does everyone know about what happened? How many people know the truth? Everything will be ruined if people know the truth. I wallow in misery for the remainder of the day, checking in on each tribute but spending the most time on Rosa.

I don’t want to know what is going on with the betting war at the farmer’s market. Either it’s still on or it’s stopped. If it’s still on, it means that people are placing wages over the lives and deaths of teenagers. If it’s over, it means that the break that Rosa gets is coming to a very rapid end.


	52. Chapter 52

The next morning, it’s difficult to unfold myself out of Pitch’s arms without waking him, and part of me wants to give up entirely and let him keep me in his sleeping embrace for hours. But I am still a mentor, and I still have my duty. I wiggle away from him and take a shower.

Day 11.

I eat my breakfast slowly and then amble down to the mentor room. It’s weird to think that at one point not too long ago, this place was bustling with people and activity. Now that it’s only the five of us and it has been this way for so long, it seems like nothing has changed in forever.

In the arena, the rain has stopped. I take a deep breath as I survey each tribute, starting with Rosa. Everyone looks a little relieved, none moreso than Nicola whose health is at 38%. Elijah had managed to get her a small amount of herbal pain medication within the past few days—the real medication was far too expensive—but the effects have long worn off. All of the tributes are feeling a chill except for Rosa whose warming shirt has kept her rather comfortable.

With the weather better and the medications taking effect, the District 4 tributes begin to move. They’re together still. No need to split apart with Oceana back in the running. She’s not at 100%, but she’s still pretty damned good.

Rosa stays in the trees mostly. Some might say that it’s because it’s safer there, but I’m wondering if she knows how to get down without falling. The nimble way she managed to launch herself into the trees the other day might have been sheer adrenaline and luck. The body does strange things when it’s put into tight situations. From her perch in the trees, she has also been keeping an eye on Nicola since yesterday. She was doing more than watching birds with the binoculars I sent her. They weren’t too far away from each other, but Rosa did not try to get the girl’s attention.

For about half an hour, Rosa goes through the belongings in her backpack. The food has mostly dwindled away, but she didn’t need to worry about running out of water while it was raining. Her water reservoirs are almost full. Some of her belongings get discarded, such as a small cooking pot and a bag of cornmeal. These things she carefully tucks away into the tree in which she has been hiding. Then, at long last, she wiggles her way down out of the tree. It requires some time because there is no nearby walkway, and she has to figure out which trees would be the safest for her to climb down to get to one of the walkways that is still intact.

Her feet touch solid planks, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She pauses to stretch for a bit, and then she begins walking.

I’m not surprised—but still terrified nonetheless—when I see the two flags for D4M and D4F appear on the arena map close to her. This time, they will kill her. She would never be able to talk her way out of it.

And then I realize that Rosa _knows_ that the Careers are nearby. She’s meandering on the platform a little too calmly. Perhaps others would look at this and see a little girl staring off into the fog that surrounds her small world, but I know otherwise. Oh, I know how careful and manipulative Rosa is. And I can see what is about to happen before it all unfolds.

The Careers see her and immediately they give chase. Rosa is already running. Her legs pump fast and the backpack bounces on her small frame, but she doesn’t let anything get in her way. Just like when she led them to the Cornucopia, her path appears to be convoluted, but I watch the map closely. The Careers are gaining on her, and I wonder if she’s going to have time to make it to her destination.

Yes. Yes, she does! I watch as Rosa makes a sharp left, and she’s on the same platform with Nicola, who is tucked into the overgrowth. Nicola begins to move out. Rosa doesn’t even acknowledge her. Instead she springs up and towards a tree. Latching herself on, she begins to shimmy up until she is fully enveloped in greenery. The boughs shake as she makes her way upward and away.

Nicola, on the other hand, isn’t so lucky. The Careers had seen Rosa turn, and they followed after her. But instead of finding the District 7 tribute, they found the girl from District 5. And that is just an easy kill since Nicola can’t even run away.

A cannon booms.

Rosa clings to the branches in the trees, body motionless and her eyes squeezed shut. If she feels any remorse for what she just did, I can’t tell. But who can blame a small twelve-year-old girl who wasn’t expected to live past the Bloodbath?

“Your tribute’s a sneaky little creature,” Elijah calls out as he pulls off his monitoring device and throws it onto the table nearby. It lands but rolls off onto the floor.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

He shrugs, then stands up. “Nicola was never going to make it.” Then he walks out.

There are four of us left. I take a deep breath and turn back to the monitor in time to see the hovercraft remove Nicola’s bloodied body. My monitoring device beeps as the donations start pouring in.


	53. Chapter 53

Pitch has been making it a point to eat dinners with me so that I’m not alone and tempted to skip them. It’s tough to remember to eat when you don’t have an appetite or the thought of food makes you sick altogether. Tonight I’m having particular difficulty just breathing. Ever since it dawned on me that Rosa is now in the top four, a weight has spread across my chest, keeping me from drawing in full breaths. She’s close—so close. There’s just three tributes between her and victory. And although she could never take the others on in direct combat, she’s found other clever ways to eliminate her opponents. My sadness at Nicola’s death is overwhelmed with my fear for Rosa’s future.

I can tell Pitch is refraining from giving me another lecture about mentoring, probably something about how things will be tougher in the future or to not be upset if—when (I keep having to remind myself)—Rosa dies. But he doesn’t say it, and I’m grateful. I don’t think I could have another worry press down on me because my lungs might give out entirely. Instead we eat in silence, and he keeps pace with me to make sure that I’m not eating alone.

Just when I think that I can make it through the rest of my meal without choking, the elevator opens and in walks Lala.

Technically it’s not yet 8:00 PM. It’s 7:53 PM. And she looks like she just doesn’t care about the time one bit as she strolls on into the apartment. Her hair is piled high on her head and pinned together with barrettes of pine needles. The makeup on her face is outlandish, with a large swath of green and gold paint on her left cheek. That’s where I hit her, it dawns on me. She covered it up in the most outrageous way possible. Her high heels clack against the floor as she walks right up to me, puts a hand at the table and looks straight into my eyes.

“This is how it’s going to go,” she says before either of us are able to protest her presence. “When your tribute dies, you’re going to handle it with grace. You are not going to start screaming and yelling or whatever the hell you normally do. You—and Pitch—will move out of this apartment without further complaints. You will accept defeat and be proud for your tribute’s sacrifice to our country. And I will chalk up your behavior to your inexperience as mentor and your wild hormones for your newfound relationship. Understand?”

Anger flares up inside me with terrifying raw energy. My body pulsates with hatred towards this woman and her audacious behavior. My heart pumps this hatred throughout my entire system, and I struggle to keep from jumping her and pummeling her face with my fists again. I force myself to remain seated.

“If you don’t leave the apartment right now, I will do my damnedest to make sure that no amount of makeup would be able to cover the marks on your face,” I warn. The hatred is a heat inside my chest that radiates throughout my body.

“Girl, if you try it again, you’ll be arrested before you can blink,” Lala replies. And I know that she would. I know that she has been pretty damned lenient so far if she really has the power that Pitch says she does.

Pitch stands up. “Lala, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says. “Your message has been heard and your presence is no longer wanted.”

She lifts up her wrist and looks at the golden watch face held in place with a thin pink strap. “Technically, I have another six minutes,” she tells him.

She is waiting for me to flip out on her. She’ll stand here and goad me until I lose control and send her to the hospital again. Then she can have me arrested. Then she can tell everyone how screwed over she was by her mentors and any success of District 7 fell squarely on her shoulders. She will be promoted, as she desires. And I will be punished, and so will Pitch and Rosa and who knows who else. The life and death of many people rest on how I handle myself in the next six minutes.

When neither Pitch nor I say anything, she smiles smugly at us.

“Now, would you like me to connect you to a real estate agent now or when Rosa dies?” she asks sweetly.

My heart is necrotic. It’s black and withering, decaying into eternity as the hatred swells and gurgles inside of me with no hope of escape. My anger froths and burns as it sloshes against my broken ribs.

“There’s a lovely woman by the name of Nadia Price who will be more than happy to help you out,” Lala continues. “She will help you get things sorted out and find the best options. I don’t know how long your love affair will last—I imagine that it’ll just break apart right after you get home when you no longer have the thrill of mentoring—so don’t plan on buying a place with Pitch in mind. Besides—” she flicks her attention at Pitch for a moment before returning to me “—he always has his eyes on other women. Don’t want to get your heart broken.”

Is this her way of getting back at me? At us? I twist the napkin in my hands under the table. Pitch’s stony gaze focuses on the woman, reflecting almost as much hatred as I feel right now.

“Oh, and speaking on the topic of romance,” she looks once more at Pitch, unperturbed by his expression, “ _She_ does miss you. Quite inconsolable that you turned your attention to a young girl.”

I don’t know who “she” is, but I can take a stab in the dark and assume it was whoever Pitch was visiting for late-night “appointments” before the Hunger Games began.

“You might need to comfort her. She was so sad when Green died.”

Is she finished yet?

No, the clock on the wall says she still has plenty of time to dig in with more remarks.

“Juniper, I really _do_ feel sorry for you. You were such a good tribute last year,” she turns to me. “Your mentor has deceived you in many ways, from not telling you about his many sordid affairs and romantic flings to failing to explain your role in the Capitol. It really does fall upon him to make sure that you’re educated about your position, and how to respect those around you. I suppose that sort of stuff is lost on the district populations.” She sighs dramatically. “Well, once Rosa is finally dead, you’ll have the option of writing a letter home to her family to reassure them that her sacrifice was worthwhile. If you choose not to write, then it’s customary to at least visit them so they know that you did not abandon their daughter and sister when she faced her fellow tributes.

“Pitch, of course, did not explain this to you because he does not like to follow this custom, as he does not follow many customs. I suppose he also didn’t tell you about Laurel Shrubsprout, did he? No, of course not. You see, Pitch doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being a _good_ mentor, okay?”

Laurel Shrubsprout. The name sounds familiar. After a second, I remember that he was a tribute a few years back. But I really don’t know anything other than that.

Lala is watching me with such mock sadness in her eyes that I want to erase her face in a blender. I bite the insides of my cheeks and hold her gaze.

The woman continues, “If I had known that he only helps those who he later wants to—”

“Your time is up, Lala,” Pitch says. “Get out of here.”

She stands upright and takes a step back from the table. To her, she has won the battle. She has found ways to dig into us, mock us, remind us of the things that keep us awake at night, and try to drive wedges between us. She bats her eyelashes and pats her hair before she gives us a sharkish grin.

“Happy Hunger Games,” she says. And then to me, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

I watch her retreating form as she disappears around the corner and into the elevator.


	54. Chapter 54

Pitch returns to his seat when the elevator doors finally close. He takes a deep breath and sits quietly. I stare at my arms under the table where I had inadvertently scratched myself so badly that I’m bleeding where one of my fingernails dug into my skin. The blood dribbles down my forearm and onto the leg of my pants.

“Laurel Shrubsprout was—” Pitch begins.

I cut him off. “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. I know she was just trying to mess us up.”

Neither of us speak for a minute. I start to squeeze my arm so the blood trickles out a little faster.

Pitch clears his throat. “I . . . abandoned Laurel,” he says.

I look up at him. He who told me that we were our tributes’ last hope? I suppress the anger because I know that Lala only dropped that information to get me riled up and angry at Pitch, just like she told me about his many lovers. Anyway, I remember him telling me something to the effect that not all years went as well as others, and not all tributes received the same treatment, though at the time he didn’t go into details. I’m curious about it, but I decide that I won’t let Lala win.

Standing up, I say, “I need a bandage.”

Pitch’s eyes land on my bloodied arm. He follows me to the bathroom and insists on cleaning, medicating, and wrapping my cut.

His hands linger on my arm longer than necessary and I feel like he still wants to talk to me and reassure me that he’s not as terrible of a person as Lala would insist that he is. But I brush him off and head back to the dining room table and sit down in front of my plate of now room-temperature food.

“Juniper, I _want_ to tell you about Laurel,” Pitch says as he sits down across from me. I force-feed myself a bite of food because Dr. Castillo’s instructions didn’t say that I could get out of eating just because Lala returned. “Hey.”

I look up at Pitch. He meets my eyes. “Really. I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t think it had a place in conversation. There’s only so much time in the day that I can’t just tell you about all of my screw-ups.”

“I’m not angry at you,” I say. “I’m angry at her. You don’t need to tell me about Laurel.”

“But I am going to tell you,” he says. “I had a breakdown the year I mentored Laurel. I just couldn’t handle the stress of mentoring anymore, and I couldn’t cope. He was too needy and always wanted me around him, and I just . . . fell apart.”

He’s holding something back, but I don’t ask. He’s already told me more than he was required to.

“Laurel died about halfway through, right?” I ask him.

Pitch nods. “Yeah. Made it through the bloodbath on his own and then got killed by a mutt,” he says. “I can’t help but think that it was my negligence that brought about his death. If I had not been so shitty of a mentor, maybe the Gamemakers wouldn’t have triggered that monster.”

I remember Laurel now. He was sixteen or seventeen, and everyone in his hometown loved him. His death was a major blow to their community, and they even named a street in his honor.

“But I know,” Pitch continues, “that it was just not District 7’s year to win anyhow. Bris was mentoring the other one—the girl—and she could easily have been victor. Until she got her arm severed in a Gamemaker event. She recovered well, but was an instant target for the Careers.”

“This was the year Gill won?” I ask. That would make it the 137th, the year before Esther’s.

“Yes,” he says. “From a strictly objective standpoint, Gill wasn’t really victor material. It was clearly a set up. I have nothing against Gill, so please don’t think I wish him dead, but it was his good looks and charm that resulted in his win. He worked hard, but hard work alone doesn’t make a victor.”

It was a set-up for District 4. I don’t remember thinking of it as such, at least not directly. I would have been fourteen years old at the time, and every inch of the Hunger Games looked pretty messed up to me. I didn’t have the keen ability to pick out what was contrived and forced because nothing about any Hunger Games is really natural.

Something sticks out from the back of my brain. Something that Pitch said the other day. “When I woke up from being unconscious or sedated or whatever, and I asked about Rosa, you said that they were giving the tributes a few days for Oceana to heal,” I say. “Are you implying that they’re doing this again? That they’re rigging this for another District 4 victory?”

I study him hard. Please tell me no. Please tell me that there is a chance for Rosa to win. She’s a smart kid and can figure out a way to get out of there alive.

“I can’t say for certain, but yes, that’s what I am implying,” he at last concedes. “If it were fair, they wouldn’t have allowed so many days’ break for them all to heal. Rosa didn’t need to heal. Neither did the tribute from District 10, Phil. Nicola was beyond hope because none of her wounds could heal without medical attention. That left only Fjord and Oceana.”

“And if they didn’t let them heal, either Rosa or Phil would have had a chance,” I say.

“In theory,” he replies. “Technically either of them could still win, but it’s much less likely with both District 4 tributes fully healed.”

When you go into the arena, you know that politics play an important role, but you don’t really understand the extent to which they manipulate the outcome. You know that people pay money if you do interesting, bold, dangerous, or glamorous things, but there’s no way for you to understand the mechanisms of the system. And while you know that no matter how well prepared you are, there’s still an element of randomness or chaos that can kill you, you don’t consider that maybe, just maybe, the Gamemakers are gunning to take you out of the running merely because of your district number. You think that you have a chance, even if that chance is slim. But ultimately you just have whatever chance the Gamemakers give you.

I don’t know what to say, so I fork in the remaining bites of food that are still left on my plate.

“Alright, let’s go to bed,” Pitch says when I drink the last of my water. He hasn’t finished his own meal. I don’t comment on it. “Unless you’re unnerved by Lala’s accusations. Which are not entirely true and also not entirely false.”

“I’m over it,” I say.

The avox whisks away our food and we go to our rooms to get ready for bed. As I brush my teeth, I try to recall all I can about the 137th Hunger Games. It took place in a shopping mall, of all things, and there were some pretty dumb muttations and events. I’m selfishly glad that I wasn’t here at that time because I’m sure that the Capitol citizens were going wild and crazy and decorating their own malls in theme. We never would have heard the end of it.

At last I crawl into bed with Pitch. The pain medication sometimes makes me forget that my ribs are broken, but then sudden pain shoots across me when I move wrong or try to take too deep of a breath. Pitch is probably more careful of this than I am and never touches where I’m injured as he wraps an arm around me. We drift off to sleep.


	55. Chapter 55

Day 12. I sit in front of my computer and stare at the screen absently. The tributes are meandering around a little. Phil has dared to leave his treehouse and has been pacing around the wooden walkways. If nobody does anything, the Gamemakers will soon drive them all together.

My side aches from sitting up for so long, and my mind drifts and bounces as I recall one conversation after another that has taken place over the past few days. It’s hard to focus on the tributes, especially when they keep to themselves. The District 4 tributes have split apart, and I figure that they’ve finally embraced the inevitable. I’m just about to go lie down on the couch because I don’t think I can sit upright anymore when I see the D4F and D4M flags closing in on D7F, one on each side as they pin the District 7 tribute in between them.

They haven’t separated; they have decided to address the issue with the slippery tribute in a rather smart manner. Smart, of course, if that D7F wasn’t my own tribute.

“C’mon, Rosa, you can do it,” I whisper as I settle back into my seat. Leaning closer to the monitor, I watch as she walks quietly along the walkway, seemingly oblivious to the Careers. She picks her steps carefully, being as silent as she can. I wish I could yell at her to pay attention to her surroundings because the Careers are almost on her.

My breathing quickens. I ignore the searing pain in my side. Pain means nothing right now.

The District 4 male appears in front of her. She looks up, and in that one moment, I can see a gleam in her eyes. She has something planned. Holy shit, I missed whatever trap she has contrived, but she has something planned!

Fjord runs straight for her. Rosa turns on her heal and runs the way she came. Her footsteps are slower than I’d expect and then I realize that she’s careful where she places each boot. Each step is in a precise place, but she’s moving quickly enough that it’s hard to follow her motions, especially at the distance Fjord is from her. The walkway is covered in oil—a long-forgotten item she picked up from the Cornucopia during the bloodbath.

And Fjord runs after her without regard and steps right into the oil. His feet slip out from under him and he begins to topple backwards. His arms flail as he tries to regain his balance, and then he falls right over the side of the walkway.

The cannon doesn’t fire, however, because he has managed to grab onto the edge of the walkway. His fingers cling to the board and slowly he begins to pull himself up. Rosa doesn’t see this; she just runs. Maybe she’s wondering why she doesn’t hear the cannon or maybe she knows that she can’t go back to investigate. Her trap has failed, or at least it hasn’t worked yet. She had it all planned out so well, but she hadn’t planned for Fjord to be able to catch himself before he went over.

And she also didn’t plan to run right into Oceana.

The sword goes straight into Rosa’s chest.

The world freezes as though someone pushed “stop” on the recording, but I feel my pounding heart beat less frequently and I know that time has only slowed down for me as I watch Rosa, eyes wide and mouth agape, stare at Oceana.

Rosa, the little girl I mentored.

Rosa, who was far too manipulative for any twelve year old but still wooed everyone with her charm.

Rosa, who could very well have been the victor.

And then I watch as Rosa collapses onto the wooden walkway, the sword sticking from her chest. Her body spasms and blood dribbles from her opened mouth. Her eyes are still fixed on Oceana. It’s not surprise or contempt or anger or any other of such reasonable emotions that’s on her face. It’s respect. And that expression is mirrored back on Oceana’s own face for the briefest of seconds before the cannon booms. And then Oceana’s mouth turns down and I see the sadness in her eyes.

My monitoring device has been vibrating wildly on my wrist, but I hadn’t felt it until it stopped, leaving my wrist tender and my insides hollow. And then the entire world rushes back to normal speed, leaving me stuck in a reality that I cannot escape. The word “DECEASED” is plastered on my screen, and there is no going back.

Unable to move, I watch as Oceana leans over and closes Rosa’s eyes before she removes the sword from her chest. And then, in a moment of, well, I don’t know, the District 4 tribute heaves the sword over the side of the walkway and into the fog below.

“What was that about?” Fjord asks as he approaches his district partner and stares in the direction Oceana had thrown the sword. He’s rubbing his arm tenderly.

Oceana looks at Fjord and says simply, “Told you. I don’t like close combat.”

Then she turns on her heel and walks away from Rosa’s body and the pool of blood that is ever growing and dripping down through the spaces in the wooden boards. Fjord glances momentarily at Rosa and then follows after his district partner.

I watch as they walk away side-by-side until they are no longer visible from this camera angle.

Rosa.

How? Why?

 _She could have won. She could have been the victor._ She was smart and clever and she could have outfoxed the remaining tributes. She could have. This damned Hunger Games. The damned Capitol. What the fuck have they done?!

Rosa is dead.

The emotions are welling up inside me. All those emotions I know I’m supposed to contain. I need to get myself under control. I need to remove the monitoring device from my wrist and walk out gracefully not because Lala told me to but because that’s what every other mentor has done, more or less. I need to hold my head high and act like the victor I am.

I need to breathe.

I try to take a deep breath, but the pain splits through my side and I cry out. And with that one cry, I feel myself losing it all. I jump up and grab at my monitoring device, fumbling wildly to pry it off my wrist. It won’t come off. My fingers are shaking too hard and I’m too upset to focus, but the longer it takes me the more desperate I become to get it off my body. Giving up, I raise up the monitoring device and bash it into the computer screen. Again and again and again until my computer is shattered and there’s glass and plastic and twisted metal everywhere and I’m bleeding again and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from taking out my anger and hatred and pain on this damned computer and the fucking monitoring device that won’t come off my wrist no matter how much I try.

There are hands on me, and Lady is snapping the device off my wrist.

“I’m fine,” I rip my hand away from her. She backs up.

But the district four mentors are then wrapping my arm up in paper towels they gathered from the lounge, holding it in place to stop the blood flow. And then they sit me down, and I recognize one of the mentors as Gill Tide—we’d been introduced my first day here. He’s been sitting in the room with me for over two weeks now, has attended interviews and parties with me, and I’ve barely given him a second thought. Now I can’t unsee the fact that Pitch told me that he wasn’t supposed to win and that the Gamemakers had killed off the District 7 tributes because they were too strong. And I’m angry at Gill now because of who he is and no other reason which is entirely not fair.

I’m lightheaded, and the anger begins to subside as emptiness threatens to consume me. The rage with which I destroyed the computer station drains away. I’m still angry. It’s just that . . . I’m so confused. Lost.

I lean over and puke on the carpet. When I sit back upright and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, I have to fight to keep my world from spinning. Gill has his hand on my shoulder.

I clamp down the paper towels that are covering the wound. Lady returns with actual towels which she wraps over the paper and ties in place.

“Want me to get Pitch for you?” she asks.

“No,” I mutter. I can’t rely on Pitch all the time. This is my problem to deal with. Rosa was _my_ tribute. And now she’s dead.

He told me.

They all told me.

I had hoped despite the warnings that maybe, just maybe, Rosa would live.

And I think about her small frame pinned with a sword like she’s a butterfly pinned to the display case.

I stand up and nearly topple over. There are hands on me, and when they steady me, I move away from them towards the door. When I reach it, however, I hesitate and look back.

My computer station is a wreck. It’ll never be used again. Blood is splattered across its battered remains and there are flecks on the wall. But the mentoring station will just be replaced. Like Rosa. She will be replaced, too. There will always be another tribute.

The three other mentors are staring at me. My mind is hazy and my vision blurry. I can’t tell what they want from me. But I do know that they all rushed over to help me even though they had no reason to do it.

“Thank you,” I manage before I open the door and leave.

_Rosa._


	56. Chapter 56

Pitch meets me in the hallway on the way to the elevator. I collapse into his arms. He supports me as we stagger back to the District 7 apartments. Once safely inside, he takes me directly to my bedroom.

“Take a shower, Juniper,” he says calmly. I look longingly at my bed. His hand goes to my cheek and he strokes it gently. “I know. But you need to take a shower because we have to leave the apartment now.”

Now?! Right _now_?

There’s a faint flicker of anger that threatens to rise but it’s suppressed by the void that has taken up residence within me.

I stagger off to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. I don’t know what to think. What to do. How to handle anything.

When I leave the shower and dry off, I find that I never took off the towel from my arm and I’m bleeding everywhere again. Wrapping the bath towel around myself, I stagger into my bedroom. Pitch is there packing up my things.

“I’ve set out some clothes there, on your bed,” he says as he nods towards a pair of pants and a shirt at the foot of the comforter. Then he sees the blood on the damp towels and he leads me to the chair in my room and sits me down and gives me a fresh towel. “Hang on, I called Dr. Castillo while you were in the shower; she’ll be here any minute. In the meantime, sit here and apply pressure.”

Then he goes back to packing.

I don’t have the words to ask him what’s going on or why we have to leave so urgently. Rosa just died. Am I not allowed to mourn her loss? Is Pitch of all people denying me this one thing?

Dr. Castillo arrives within a few minutes and Pitch ushers her into the room. She reviews my arm and immediately unwraps the haphazard and soaking wet towels, the fresh towel Pitch gave me fallen and forgotten on the floor. I zone out as she cleans it and sutures it and wraps it back up to keep it clean. She gives me instructions but I only see her mouth moving as none of the words are making it into my brain. After a moment, she turns to Pitch and says something. Then she turns to me and checks my eyes, listens to my chest, takes my blood pressure, and assesses my temperature. She gives me a shot and tells me to swallow some pills with a glass of water she provides. I do as instructed.

For a few minutes, Dr. Castillo and Pitch talk. They seem to be disagreeing about something. Arguing? I’m not certain. Can’t hear them. Don’t want to hear them.

Rosa.

Rosa, can you hear me? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

“Juniper, you need to listen to me,” Pitch says.

I look up at him and blink. He crouches down in front of me. Where’s Dr. Castillo? Did she already leave?

“I know you’re upset. No, no. More than upset. I know. And I’m not trying to minimize your pain, you know that,” he says. “But when Lala says that we need to clear out of here as soon as Rosa’s dead, she means it. We have to go. An avox will bring our stuff later, okay?”

I blink again.

Pitch heaves me to my feet. “We are about to go out where there will likely be crowds of people, Juniper,” he says with a twinge of desperation. “You need to gather your wits. You can mourn later. I’m so sorry.”

When I just stand there blankly, he draws me into a hug. His warmth surrounds me, and the tight hold squeezes me a little too much. But it pulls me back to the present enough that I feel the carpet underneath my feet and the towel wrapped around my body and Pitch’s breath on the top of my head. The medications that Dr. Castillo gave me have dulled the pain in my arm and in my broken ribs. I no longer feel nauseous. I take as deep of a breath as I dare.

“Okay,” I say.

Pitch releases me. “I trust you can dress on your own.”

“Of course,” I say, my cheeks flushing.

He leaves me to get dressed. It takes me longer than normal. I nearly fall down when I try to put on my underwear and pants, and I almost give up on trying to clasp my bra. But in the end I manage to compose myself as best as I can. I even add the smallest bit of makeup to my face to give the illusion that I am put together. Knowing that we are under a time constraint, however, I don’t dawdle longer than I need. I put on my boots, grab a couple of books, and head to the elevator.

Once in the lobby, my body tenses. There are people outside—many of them by the sound of it. Crowds? I’m not certain. But it’s going to be rough getting out of here without being pinned down by eager fans. We aren’t alone in the lobby, either. Lala is walking towards us with a couple of reporters.

“Oh, you guys are leaving so soon?” she asks with what appears to be genuine surprise. “We were just going upstairs. I thought it would be most suiting for my interview to be in the District 7 apartment.”

“Have at it,” Pitch replies as he half drags me away. We’re heading down another hallway—not daring to go out the front doors—when I realize what just happened.

“She had timed an interview in our apartment for when Rosa died?” I asked him.

“Most likely hoping that she would catch us there, too,” he grumbles. “I figured she had something up her sleeve, but I wasn’t sure what. Nothing like interviewing a grieving victor. Most reporters prefer to give us some space because if they piss us off, it’s harder to interview us in the future, but they would have loved the opportunity if it presented itself.”

Sick. Twisted. I hate that woman. Hate her with everything in me.

Which, right now, isn’t a whole lot.

If it was—if the void wasn’t threatening to take over—I would have possibly flipped out on her.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m empty.

Pitch hesitates at the exit and looks around. There are some people milling about outside, but since this door isn’t used too much, no one is really on the lookout for escapee Victors trying to find sanctuary amidst tragedy.

“Hold my hand,” he instructs me. “We’re going to walk as swiftly as we can while still trying to look normal.”

My hand finds his, and he leads me out the door.

The warm summer sun hits me first. It’s been days—many days—since I last felt sunlight. I’ve been cooped up in the training center for so long that I almost forgot that there was a world around me separate from the events within the arena. My hand is sweaty in Pitch’s. We walk quickly across the courtyard until we get to a street. Pitch hails a cab, and a minute later, we’re inside.

“Hello, District 7,” says the cabbie. “Sorry about your tributes. Where are you heading to?”

Pitch gives him the address. Are we going to his place? I watch the city streets pass us by. Some have already changed their decorations to show that there are only three tributes left—and Rosa isn’t one of them. While I’m miffed that they are so quick to remove Rosa’s memory, I’m also appreciative that I don’t have to stare at her face and remember that only hours ago, she was alive and well. But there are still plenty of places that are showing her picture front and center as the most recent casualty within the arena. It’s too much. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and wait for the car to come to a stop.


	57. Chapter 57

“Isolde’s place,” Pitch explains to me as we stand on the front step. It’s not what I expected for a Career victor. Instead of some great, attention-grabbing high rise, it’s a quaint little three-story townhouse bordering on the edge of the suburban section. There are flowers in the yard, and the hedges are trimmed nicely. Curtains hang in the window and I see what appears to be a cat perched up in the second story balcony. But when I strain my eyes to see, I realize that it’s only a small statue.

The door opens, and Isolde is standing there in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She moves aside and motions us in.

“C’mon, guys,” she says. Then she closes the door promptly behind us. “We’re just about to make a late lunch. Or early dinner, whatever you want to call it.”

We?

She leads us down a hallway past several rooms and into the kitchen at the back of the house. Esther and Hammer are standing at the counter, both wearing matching aprons, and arguing over which recipe they’re actually making.

“Settle down. We’re making a soufflé,” Isolde tells them as she walks in.

Both Esther and Hammer turn when she speaks and they don’t look too surprised to see myself and Pitch.

“Sorry to hear about Rosa, guys,” Esther says.

Hammed nods. “She was a tough kid. Would have been badass to try to keep her from taking over the world if she had won.”

“I would have let her,” says Isolde. “But anyway, we are making a meal, as I said, and you are welcome to join us. I don’t have any more aprons, though.”

I glance at Pitch. He nudges me forward, just like he used to do when I was a new victor and he had to get me to keep on moving forward with life. I shuffle into the kitchen, wash my hands, and then await further instructions.

Pitch sits at the counter watching us as Isolde tries to order us about. It’s clear that none of us are master chefs, and our abilities in the kitchen are only a touch more sophisticated than being able to boil water. Once the soufflé is underway, she shows us how to make a few side dishes to go with it. We make roasted asparagus, apple and walnut salad, and toasted rosemary bread. My movements are slow and lethargic, and I’m more of a hindrance in the kitchen than a help, but nobody makes me feel that way. Between Isolde’s instructions, trying to navigate the crowded kitchen, and focusing heavily on making sure that everything gets done right, I forget for the briefest moment about Rosa and the Hunger Games.

And when it comes back, it’s in a giant wave of pain and guilt. Guilt because I dared to forget about her suffering for even the shortest period of time. Because I was almost enjoying myself as the four of us worked together to prepare a passable meal.

The others find me standing in a corner crying. Esther leads me to the table and all of us, including Pitch, sit down for dinner.

Isolde leads us in a toast. “To our tributes,” she says. “May they be happier in death than we are in life.”

And everyone clicks their glasses against each other’s and agrees.

I’m sure the soufflé tastes great but to me it’s a touch too salty.

“Juniper, you’re going to stay here til you find your own place,” Isolde tells me as we’re eating. I don’t respond but I also don’t really have any issues with that. At least here the chances of Lala walking in are much, much less. “We’ll hit up the real estate agent tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I frown.

“Remember what we said? You promised that you’d let us help you look for a house, even if you don’t feel like it,” Esther reminds me.

Does it even matter now? Can I go back to District 7 right this moment? But even the thought of going home pains me because it was my job—my one job—to bring my tribute back alive. And I failed. I know logically that no matter how it unfolded, twenty-three of us would fail this year just like every other year. But . . . it’s different to say that twenty-three will die than it is to say that my one tribute who has a name, a face, a personality, and a life will die. How can I return to District 7 knowing that I didn’t keep her safe? How can I possibly go about my life knowing that there’s a family out there who is mourning their daughter who I couldn’t save?

My chest aches. I’m shaking. I can’t finish my food.

Esther volunteers to clean the dishes, and Hammer heads off to help her. Pitch stays by my side and Isolde watches me from across the table.

“I have a room for screaming in here, too,” she says to me. “Second floor. It used to be a closet. If you feel like you need it at any time, please feel free to use it.”

I only stare at my placemat through tear-filled eyes. The crisscross lines of the woven pattern blur together.

“I’m sorry I had to get you out of the apartment quickly,” Pitch says. “Normally we’re not rushed out quite so fast. They give us time to put ourselves together.”

“They acknowledge that the loss hurts but we’re not allowed to show it in public,” Isolde agrees. She leans back in her chair and braids her hair as she watches me.

How can they say all this? They just lost their own tributes less than a week ago, and they appear to be back to normal. It seems completely disrespectful to be going about their regular lives and thinking about apartment shopping when their tributes aren’t even in the ground yet.

“I’m tired,” I say at last. “Can I go to bed?”

“It’s not even 4:00 PM,” Pitch says. “I am going to sound like a heartless bastard about this and there’s no good way to phrase this, but when we lose a tribute, we have to keep on a normal schedule as much as possible. We don’t get to grieve like other people. We have to be ready to step into the spotlight whenever they decide to interview us. Which, fortunately, will not be for a couple days. But if your sleep schedule gets totally messed up, it’ll take too long to correct it.”

What if I just sleep and sleep and sleep without regard to the time of day or even how long I’ve been sleeping?

I wipe my eyes with my napkin.

“Everybody told me not to get attached,” I mumble.

Isolde shakes her head. “It’s going to hurt regardless of whether you get attached to your tribute or not. I didn’t even like my tribute and I was so upset for days that I didn’t set foot outdoors.”

“It’s hard not to get attached to Rosa,” Pitch says. I glance at his expression. He’s torn up, too. In my grief, I failed to see that Rosa’s death caused him pain. He was so busy tending to me that he likely didn’t have a moment to let it sink in, and now that we’re finished with dinner and things have settled down, it’s finally taken root inside of him. He has to pause to wipe his eyes with his napkin, too.

Even Isolde’s eyes are shiny. But she’s either more stoic or less attached, either of which would make sense. Rosa was my tribute. _Our tribute,_ I think, as I remember that Pitch hasn’t left my side.

“We do this every year, huh?” I ask at last.

“Over and over,” Isolde confirms. “Though both District 1 and District 7 have enough people that you can take breaks every now and again. Some districts. . . .” Her eyes flick towards the kitchen where Esther is drying the dishes.

Esther of District 8 is pretty much on her own. Unlike myself and Pitch or Isolde and Hammer, she doesn’t have people who can substitute for them. Liberty, Bris, Vesa, Pitch, Elm, myself . . . there are many of us who are capable of mentoring, even if this year some people are ill or tired or giving birth to children. Next year, the situation may be different and I may not have to mentor. But Esther always will.

“But it doesn’t matter in some ways,” Pitch says. “You’ll always remember the kids you mentored and lost. Doesn’t matter if it was one or two or twenty. There are some that stand out and others that kind of melt together, but overall, their deaths are forever burned into you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I'm a little slow-going because I am stuck a chapter or two down the road. Trying to polish it up before I post it. :)


	58. Chapter 58

Pitch and I sit on the back porch in the evening twilight. A long, narrow yard stretches before us, bordered on three sides by eight-foot-tall wooden fences. The yard itself is mostly lawn with small stepping stones leading back to a zen garden and a bubbling fountain. In the far corner is a chicken coop around which half a dozen chickens had been pecking and gobbling until Isolde had locked them away for the night.

“Isolde’s going to help keep you on a schedule,” Pitch tells me as we sit on the back steps. I look at the scuffs on the toes of my boots absently. “She’ll give you time and space, but she’ll help you stay on track.”

“You talk like you’re not going to be here,” I say.

He leans against the wooden pillar that supports the wooden overhang above our heads. “Not all the time. Tonight I have another, ah, appointment, and tomorrow I have to go get my own living space sorted out.”

I jerk my attention to him when he so casually slips in the appointment.

“Is it the lady that Lala was talking about?” I ask.

“Yes,” Pitch says.

We have been keeping our voices low so that nobody in neighboring yards can hear us, but now I don’t even want the other victors to listen in.

I draw in a breath. “Is it because of me? Because I pissed off Lala?”

“Nope,” he says.

“Yeah, because I punched her and she was looking for ways to get back at us.”

“You punched her, sure. But in reality, it was really . . . the fact that Rosa died that triggered this. I get left alone when my tribute is still alive because it’s understood that I need to concentrate on that. And since people believe that you and I are in a relationship and that we’re working together for our tributes, in a way Rosa was my tribute as well.”

I don’t reply.

“Normally I would have a day or two off afterwards, but Lala made sure that didn’t happen.”

So it _is_ my fault. I look up at him. He’s studying me carefully.

“You’re talking about this like it’s another 9-5 job,” I mutter.

He shrugs. Like it’s no big deal.

“This happens every time you come to the Capitol?” I ask.

“Not every time,” he says. “Normally only when there are enthusiastic patrons who can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“And all this for Green? He’s dead now, so why does it matter?”

He shifts and looks a little uncomfortable. “It’s not for Green.”

“So who—or what—is it for?” I’m prying too much, but I need to know. For what reason does Pitch need to be subjected to this?

“Various things.” Too vague. I stare hard at him, and he stares back. I’m not going to get an answer.

“Alright, fine. Whatever.” I look back across the yard and towards the chicken coop where the little animals are all tucked in for the night. Every once in awhile I can hear a squawk drift over our direction, but it’s a quiet noise, like they’re mumbling in their sleep. “At least—are you coming back tonight?”

Pitch doesn’t respond for a moment. “I can, if you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

“Alright,” he says.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. I long for the solitude of District 7 where one can have a yard and chickens and not worry about the various buildings towering over your own little personal space. The ever glowing lights of the Capitol become quickly tedious when you’re here; what once started as something to be awed—buildings taller than the tallest tree you’ve ever seen—becomes trashy and repetitive. But when we get back to District 7, things will be different. The relationship Pitch and I have is vastly different from what we had when we left, and I don’t mean the fake romantic one. The way I view the world will be different, too, like when I came back the first time; only now, I’ll have the burden of not just the people I killed but of those I failed to save.

_Rosa._

“They really don’t give us time to mourn, do they?” I ask. “You have to go off and have sex with some powerful woman against your will, and I have to go buy a house like life is just perfectly normal.”

“No, they don’t. We end up having to find other ways to mourn.”

Elijah told me that the Capitol liked to torture us to keep us in control, but I don’t know what exactly they think we would be doing otherwise. Having two dozen chickens in our yards instead of 6? I rest my head on the railing of the step and close my eyes.


	59. Chapter 59

Isolde’s house is a nice. One of the homiest sort of places I’ve seen in the Capitol yet. There are five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and a sixth bathroom on the ground floor. On the roof is a balcony on which you can look out at the neighborhood.

The bedroom she gives me is on the second floor with a view of the backyard. It’s a small room, but clean and pleasant. The white furniture is made out of real wood, and the thick quilt on the bed might even be handmade. Checkered curtains hang in the windows.

It’s late. I’ve finished my book after having easily picked it back up despite not reading for many days. Now it’s time to transition to another book, but I find myself stuck. Our belongings arrived as Pitch had said, but despite the ridiculous number of books I have, not a single one sounds good. The relief I had from burying myself in a faraway story starts to wear off as I stare at ceiling fan. There’s another wave of guilt at the fact that I had once again forgotten Rosa, this time for much longer as I read about fictional people in fictional crises that were resolved in a pleasant, but fictional, manner. Rosa was real. _Is_ real. Because even though she is not with us, she still exists both in corporeal terms and in memory. What are they doing to her now? Do they sew up the bodies before they send them back to the districts? Do they gather all of the fallen tributes into the cold, cold depths of the morgue and release them all at once, or does each tribute get returned as he or she dies?

I sit up and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I won’t be reading anymore tonight. I wish Pitch were here with me, and it’s with a lurch in my gut that I remember that he isn’t here because he’s providing entertainment for someone against his will, and it’s my fault that he’s being forced back into it so soon after Rosa died.

Shuffling out of the room, I pause at the top of the stairs. There’s a television on downstairs, the volume low. A faint flickering glow meets me as I head into the living room. Isolde sits on the couch, illuminated by the television’s light. She has her arms wrapped around her chest, but then I see that she’s really holding something against her body. The television is showing a recap of the day’s events in the Hunger Games.

Rosa. They’re showing her alive and running. And then they show her dead. Then they show the District 10 male, Phil, trying to shake acorns out of trees because he’s on the last of his food. And then the District 4 tributes discussing something.

“How can you watch this?” I demand.

Isolde turns around sharply and blinks at me for a second as her eyes get used to the darkness.

“Oh. Hey, Juniper,” she says.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She studies me for a moment. “Because we have to know. C’mon, sit.”

At first I consider going upstairs and packing my things. I don’t know where I’d go, but it would be far away from this crazy Career victor who is willingly watching recaps of a child get murdered on national television. But then I notice that the object she is holding in her arms against her body is a ragged and worn stuffed cat. And I see in that moment how strangely human Isolde is despite coming from such a different background. So I shuffle around the side of the couch and sit down at the other end.

“We’re still expected to keep up with the Hunger Games even after our tributes die,” she explains softly, her eyes still on the TV where they’re advertising some kind of tooth-whitening product. “And we’ll get interviewed about the Hunger Games, how our tribute performed before they were killed, what we think about the remaining tributes or whoever is made victor, etc. Pitch managed to postpone your interviews. They try to interview you the next day—sometimes even the same day—but he told everyone that you’d come down with a stomach bug again.”

“They believe that?” I ask.

“I guess there’s a doctor willing to confirm it.”

Dr. Castillo. Why on earth would she be willing to put her medical license on the line for that sort of lie? Is that something that they normally do in the Capitol? Then again, I don’t think that doctors are supposed to be disclosing their patients’ care to begin with, so maybe all the rules are different here than they are in District 7.

We watch a report about the weather. Sunny skies for tomorrow. Beautiful day for a picnic, they say. But maybe it would be more appropriate to be in an outdoor restaurant or café where you still have access to the latest Hunger Games coverage, they also say.

“It’ll end soon,” Isolde says. “There’s only three tributes left and they’ve already let the Hunger Games go on long enough.”

I don’t want Oceana to win because she killed Rosa, and I can’t possibly think of being in the same room as her for future events and mentoring. Same with Phil—he killed Green.

“Isolde . . . did you ever, well, _hate_ me because I killed your tribute?” I ask.

“Hmm? Oh, Susannah? Yeah, she was a good one. But no, I didn’t hate you,” she answers.

“How could you not?”

She gives her stuffed cat a light squeeze. “There’s not enough room to hate people because of who they killed in the Hunger Games, you know? We know going in that only one can live, so chances are the person who wins will have killed at least _one_ person. If we all avoided other victors based on the fact that they had killed our tribute, we’d be avoiding everyone.”

I don’t think I could forgive Oceana. She was _trained_ for this. It was her goal to mow down as many people as she possibly could.

And then I think of the look in her eyes when Rosa died.

Respect.

Sadness.

And Isolde . . . she’s been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, even if she was a bit intimidating and bossy. She didn’t fit the mold of a ruthless Career. As I sit there and watch her hug that stupid stuffed cat, I understand that she is more than a trained killer. She’s a person.

“What made you volunteer?” I ask her.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you volunteer for the Hunger Games?”

Her eyes flicker away from the television and towards me. “I was young and stupid,” she says. “I was so impressionable that I actually _believed_ what they told me, that volunteering was the most important thing we could do after our years of training. I was so wrong.”

She pauses for a second, and then looks at me.

“What made you?” she asks. “Why did you volunteer?”

I take a deep breath and stare at the glowing television screen again. “Because I hate them.”


	60. Chapter 60

_It’s damned hot for the reaping, but we’re all shoved into the district square anyhow, the smell of sweat and anxiety absolutely inescapable. I’m one of the ones who is herded into the main crowd. Many more people, particularly the younger ones who are less likely to get chosen, are corralled in the overflow areas. There are thousands and thousands of kids here, and the likelihood of being chosen is so low that they need to make sure that us older ones are within reach since we have our names in the jar considerably more. But even with our names in ten, twenty, fifty times, it’s very unlikely that any single one of us will be chosen._

_From where I am about two thirds of the way back, I can barely see the stage. However, there are plenty of screens around the square for us to get a better look at the mayor and our assortment of victors. There are lots of victors here. Liberty, Bris, Vesa, Pitch, Elm. We learn all their names in school and we’re told how they are the pinnacle of our district. None of us really care about that, though; we aren’t dumb enough to be lured in by the wealth and status of the victors. Maybe it was more enticing a hundred years ago when poverty was rampant, but since our generation has been very well fed and well educated, none of us have any desire to risk death for a special place on the stage._

_By my side, however, my friend Oren clings to my arm and goes on about how dreamy Elm is. I shoot her a look to get her to shut up. Her name is in there considerably less than most people’s since her family is far more well-to-do than average, but I know that she’s just trying to block out the fear that’s eating at her. I just wish she wouldn’t; other people wouldn’t be able to see how her mouth rattled along because of her nerves and not because of a blatant disrespect. If I didn’t know her, I certainly wouldn’t._

_The mayor gives a brief speech, as usual, but the treaty of treason itself goes on for too long. They talk about how we’re paying for a crime that our ancestors committed. They talk about what an honor it is to be chosen. How each district sends two representatives to compete against man and nature in the hopes that, out of all twenty-four tributes, one of them will be victorious. This victor will bring honor and wealth to his or her district as a reminder of the Capitol’s forgiveness for past crimes. It’s so asinine that it makes me want to puke. They can talk about all the honor and glory that they want, but it’s really just a giant pageant for the citizens of the Capitol to watch and waste money on. There’s nothing honorable about that._

_I zone out a bit during the mayor’s speech—as usual—and only start paying attention when Lala teeters up to the bowl. She looks so damn ridiculous in her vibrant hues and enormous cape that juts out to the side of her body._

_My heartbeat quickens. I clench Oren’s arm._

_“Our female tribute for the 140 th Annual Hunger Games is . . . Willow Elowen!”_

_Around me, hundreds of girls exhale in relief since it is not them, but . . . I know that name. I don’t know the girl, per se, but I know the name. Oren and I exchange glances._

_Willow is a year ahead of us in school, but she is one of the most genuinely well-liked people I’ve ever known. She doesn’t make herself out to be something she’s not, she doesn’t vie for popularity or anything like that. I’ve never met her, but I have seen her in passing. She’s the sort of person about whom bad rumors don’t exist._

_That, of course, is not enough to save her from the Hunger Games. Nobody is going to dismiss her because she’s nice. There’s not going to be a single volunteer to keep her out of the arena just because she’ll take notes for someone who missed class or help someone who forgot about a presentation due today. Nice people don’t get a pass. If she makes it, she makes it, just like the rest of us average kids._

_But the thing that makes her stand out the most—the thing that causes people to gasp when she approaches the stage—is that she is in a wheelchair pushed by her older sister._

_Because Willow Elowen has been crippled since she was born. And we all know that she has no chance, not one single chance, once that gong goes off and the Games begin. They will not cure her, they will not repair her and take the time to teach her to walk, and they most certainly will not give her a wheelchair in the arena._

_And then something within me snaps._

_There is no honor in choosing a crippled girl. She is not a representative of our district who will battle “man and nature”—she will get murdered within five seconds. The citizens of the Capitol will bet against her and make money and benefit from the inevitable and brutal death of one of the kindest people who was ever reaped. This is not a reminder of past crimes but a mockery of our lives. Claiming otherwise is deplorable._

_I think of the girls around me, who cowered and trembled as the escort’s name went into the bowl._

_I think of the parents and siblings who cry because their loved ones are killed in the arena._

_I think of Willow Elowen whose death will be not for heroic purposes, as the Capitol claims, but for people to laugh at._

_The Hunger Games are not fair. Nobody said they were. But I am going to do my damnedest to MAKE them fair._

_They’ve already picked a male tribute—Lief Johnson—when I find my way through the crowd. I almost feel like I am not in control of my movements as I elbow and shoulder and fight to get to the front. I don’t care who gets hurt or who I push down. As I reach the stage, I see that Willow has her head held high and though her eyes glisten with tears, there isn’t a single one rolling down her cheek._

_“Get off the stage, Elowen,” I say to her._

_She looks at me, confused, and then up to her sister who still stands behind her._

_I heave myself onto the platform and walk over to her. “Go,” I order._

_“Well, what is this?” Lala asks._

_“Your female tribute,” I respond sharply. Willow and her sister get the message and hurry to get off stage. I watch them go, and as I am about to turn around and face the crowds of confused and inquisitive onlookers, I catch a glimpse of a victor staring curiously at me, his blue-grey eyes studying me. I turn my back to him and take my place next to Lief._

_My parents are devastated, of course. They openly cry and tell me how much they love me. But both of them say how proud they are of me, and how no matter what happens—no matter what I have to do in the arena—they will always know that I am a compassionate person. My behavior today doesn’t horrify them or make them hate me, they tell me; it is merely a testament to what a good person I am. I wait until they leave before I start crying._

_Willow Elowen and her sister come to say goodbye. Tears flow freely down both of their faces. “I can never tell you how grateful I am,” Willow says. “To know that there is someone who cares so much about me that she’s willing to sacrifice herself for my sake.” I don’t tell them that it’s not entirely about Willow because some part of me isn’t entirely certain why I stood up when I did. Plenty of kids with disabilities have been sent to the arena—though perhaps none as notable as Willow’s. A bad leg, deafness, things that don’t mean they’ll die right away but pretty much count them out. I’m not a hero or a godsend or whatever other term people are inclined to use. I’m just here. So instead of saying anything, I let her and her sister hug me and tell me that they will be waiting for me when I return._

_I’m terrified of what is to come. I’m regretting what I did. But I know that, given the chance, I’d do it all over again._

_When we get on the train, the youngest two victors are waiting there to be our mentors. They don’t even give us a chance or say hello. Pitch chooses me. Elm looks surprised, but shrugs and introduces himself to Lief._

_People ask me why I volunteered. I deny it, and I tell them that I didn’t. I was reaped. I never once uttered the words “I volunteer,” did I? I just went up, took my spot, and said that I was the tribute. There was nothing glamorous or glorious about it. It just happened. They stop asking about why I volunteered. And I am fine with that._

_Because until now, I’ve never had an answer for the question._

_Until Isolde asked me, I have never even tried to explain it._

_I volunteered because I hate the Capitol and all the things they’ve done to us._

_I volunteered because Willow Elowen had no chance to win._

_And aren’t we all supposed to have a chance? Aren’t we all supposed to represent our districts and have the opportunity to return victorious? Or has what they told us in school since we were small children been nothing but a lie?_

_Of course it’s a lie. It has always been a lie, and we know it._

_To hell with it all._

_I have a chance to win. I won’t get mowed down in the bloodbath because I can’t escape. I have hope._

_Now so, too, does Willow Elowen._

I lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. I volunteered. Like Isolde. Like Hammer. Like Gill and Fjord and Oceana and Joy. But unlike them, I didn’t do it for honor or glory or because I felt like I was supposed to. I did it because I had a fire within my chest that suddenly burst free.

That fire did not die. It will not die. It has transformed, maybe, and been replaced by a hatred towards the men and women who perpetuate the Hunger Games. But it’s still sizzling within me, wondering why it has been so long abandoned.

And I think of the courage with which I made my decision and walked up to the stage. I think of how I nearly shoved Willow and her sister straight off the side into the crowd to get them to move away. That is me.

And where did it all go, the passion and confidence?

It was stolen. Stolen by the Capitol.

I want it back.

Pitch returns near dawn and staggers into the bedroom. He quietly closes the door. My eyelids close as I hear him creep to the bed. He takes off his shoes and removes his outer clothes before crawling into bed next to me. I curl into him and listen to his breathing slow as he falls asleep.


	61. Chapter 61

I don’t wake up until after noon. Pitch is still sleeping by my side. The smell of pine perfume is strong on him, but he looks peaceful like this. In sleep, he has forgotten all of the worries that plague him, and I won’t take that from him.

Once showered, I head downstairs and find Isolde and Esther sitting at the kitchen table with a tablet in their hands. Esther jumps up and grabs some food that she was keeping warm in the oven and puts it on the table for me. She smiles. Isolde watches me.

They’re waiting for my reaction. Am I going to fall apart completely?

I wish. I wish I had the opportunity to dissolve into tears right here and waste away on the dining room floor. I wish I could start sobbing and get out the emotions building up inside me. But I know that Pitch and Isolde weren’t just giving me useless information yesterday; I know that I have to pretend to be functional.

“Guess it’s time to look at apartments,” I grumble as I sink into the chair next to Esther. She pushes the food towards me. Homemade French toast with bacon and eggs. I dig in before bothering to pour on the syrup.

“We’re already one step ahead of you,” Isolde says. “What type of house do you want? Most victors go for apartments because it has the least upkeep and people prefer to go home to the Districts when the Hunger Games aren’t happening. But some people—like yours truly—want a little more space. And no loud upstairs neighbors.”

“Where do you live, Esther?” I ask.

“You remember the hip and trendy industrialized area that Pitch showed you?” she says. “Guess it reminds me of home.”

Isolde holds up the tablet and starts swiping through various properties. She gives a bit of a small sales pitch with each one. Some, I think, she’s just showing me because they’re so overwhelmingly ridiculous, like an apartment that has wallpaper with eyeball print on it. Or a townhouse that has these grand statues of lions in front of the door. We spend some time going through the properties, and I shut out as much of the Hunger Games as I can.

Pitch comes downstairs awhile later, freshly showered and ready for the day.

“You want to look at properties with us?” Esther asks.

“Thanks for the offer, but I need to make sure my apartment hasn’t been taken over by squatters,” he apologizes with a shrug. I’m pretty certain at this point that his apartment is perfectly functional and he just doesn’t want to do any sort of house hunting with us. He stays around long enough to eat French toast and comment on some of the apartments we’re eyeing—“That one is near a bakery that specializes in onion candles” or “Sure, you can go with that if you like haunted houses”—and then he’s gone.

“Oh, this one looks nice,” I say as I point to an apartment that actually, well, looks nice.

“I think Barton Copperwell lives near there,” Isolde grimaces.

“I have no idea who that is. Is it supposed to influence my decision?”

She shrugs. “I guess not. There will always be scummy people regardless of what place you choose. Like Martha Woolylamb lives three houses over, and she’s one of the worst. Literal worst. Designs some of the arena events the Gamemakers use.”

Yes, that’s up there with literal worsts.

“If that’s the case, let’s go with that apartment,” I say.

Esther takes the tablet from Isolde and starts tapping on buttons and fiddling with things. After a few moments, a real estate agent comes on the line. She takes my basic information and the information of the apartment I want, and then she says that it’ll be ready by 6:00 PM tonight.

“That’s only in two hours,” Isolde says once the agent is off the phone. “The perks of being a victor, I guess.”

If one can call it a perk. Who knows how bugged the house is? It’s probably been ready to go for years—all these properties are—so that an unsuspecting victor would move in and blurt out more than he or she should say, thinking that there is safety in the sturdy walls.

Esther and Isolde start talking about all the ways I can customize my own apartment—padded rooms to run around and scream in without getting hurt (thanks guys), an indoor pool if I don’t mind all the construction going on, a conveyor belt that takes me from one side of the apartment to the other for when I don’t feel like moving—and things very quickly get out of hand.

We’re interrupted when a telephone rings. Isolde pushes herself away from the table with a roll of the eyes and heads to the kitchen. “Hello?” she asks. “Hmm. Okay. Hang on.”

She comes back and gives me the phone. “For you. It’s Pitch.”

“Hey,” I say, cradling the phone against my ear.

“Juniper, Phil from District 10 is dead. There’s a party tonight—assembling right now, actually—that we have to go to.”

My heart sinks. I had spent the last couple hours almost completely forgetting the Hunger Games. But now it all comes back, and I start to feel sick as I remember that Rosa is dead.

“Party? Why?”

“To watch the final battle. I’ll be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

All excitement from the apartment hunting (as stupid as it is) vanishes as I hang up the phone and hand it back to Isolde. She and Esther are looking at me curiously.

“Phil is dead. The final battle is about to start and there’s a party. Pitch is on his way back to pick me up.” I look at the two of them, hoping that they will say that there is a way I can get out of it.

“Well, I better go get ready, then,” Isolde says. “Don’t worry about locking the door when you leave—it locks on its own. Oh, and thanks for the French toast, Esther.” She waves to us goodbye and bounds up the stairs. I can hear that she’s already calling one of her fellow District 1 victors to get in touch.

“That’s my cue to leave. I think my stomach is starting to hurt,” Esther says. Then, gently, “I’m sorry, Juniper. I guess I’m just not as strong as you.”

She does look sorry. She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“I’d be in shambles if it weren’t for Pitch,” I tell her. And it’s true. However, it doesn’t seem to reassure her. She slips on her backpack and heads out the door.

Two left. The Hunger Games are almost over. I’m sorry to see that Phil of District 10 is dead, but it was going to happen sooner or later. And now we are in the home stretch.


	62. Chapter 62

The party is in full swing when Pitch and I arrive. He keeps his arm around my shoulders as we step in the door of the mansion. As with the other parties, people rush up and greet us, shaking our hands and welcoming us and asking how we’re doing. But that sort of levity falls away quickly because the final battle is at hand, and all eyes keep flitting over to the televisions.

Fjord and Oceana of District 4 never split up like most allies do when things come to the end. Instead they stayed side-by-side until they hunted and killed Phil together.

Then they decided on a time and place to meet for the final battle.

Just that simple.

The guests at the party are all riled up. Chatter goes back and forth as to who could emerge victorious, how they would manage it, and all sorts of things. Some even speculate that one will try to sneak attack the other, but I don’t think that’ll happen. At least not from Oceana. She was so insistent that things be “fair” earlier that it would be completely bizarre if she didn’t meet Fjord in face-to-face combat.

“Let’s go find a place to sit down,” Pitch says to me.

Unlike the bloodbath party, there isn’t a separate room we can disappear into away from the majority of the party. Instead we find a couch that’s partially vacant in this large room and settle in. Pitch hails an avox over and gets us drinks—non-alcoholic, he instructs the avox—and then we settle in to watch the show. My stomach churns, but it’s not as nerve-wracking as previous fights. One of the District 4 tributes will win, and I don’t have my heart set on either of them. Rosa is dead. This battle means nothing to me.

“Oh, you poor thing,” says the lady next to me. “I hear you were quite torn up about your little Rosa. Left the apartment in a hurry.”

Yes, that’s why I left the apartment so quickly.

“Yeah,” I say. “She was a good kid.”

“But we all knew she would never have made it,” the woman says in what I can only imagine is a reassuring manner. She sets a hand on mine. “There’s no way she could have held her own against Fjord and Oceana. Which one do you want to win?”

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. Sure, belittle the death of a kid and then make me choose which murderer I favor.

“Oh, um, either of them would be good victors, I’m sure,” I tell her.

Pitch pulls me a little closer and says to the lady, “District 4 has strong tributes this year. I imagine they must be proud.”

“I bet they are,” the woman says. “Oh, my friend loves District 4 so much that she gets a new tattoo to commemorate every victory they have.”

“That’s . . . dedication,” I manage.

We are saved from the conversation by the appearance of Oceana at the designated meeting spot. She has abandoned her bag, but not her weaponry, of course. She has a knife attached to her thigh, a sword on her hip, and a bow with a quiver of arrows on her back. The spot the two have chosen to meet looks as though it was made specifically for the purpose of the final battle. It’s a platform approximately 50 feet long and 40 feet wide. Part of the platform has rails around it, but part doesn’t. There are trees near the railed portion whose branches help support the platform. These branches extend so far out that you can see them peeking out the other side.

We hear the Hunger Games announcer, Janice Lovely, catching us up on all of the latest news: “Oceana and Fjord of District 4 are reaching the final minutes of the Hunger Games,” she says. “With all other competition eliminated, it’s guaranteed to be a District 4 victory this year. And not only that, but they’re tied.”

“Tied?” comes the voice of Caligula Klora.

“Yes, that’s right Caligula. The Cannon Count shows that both Oceana and Fjord have _four_ kills under their belts.”

The betting must be going crazy. Not at this party, of course, where things appear to be a little more “refined,” but I’m sure some parties and bars and wherever else are just going absolutely nuts with two strong Careers battling to the death, each with four kills. Because none of these monsters even cares that “kills” means the number of lives they’ve snuffed out. To them, it’s merely goals in a soccer game.

Then they show a picture of each of their kills: for Ocean, the District 3 male, District 10 female, District 12 female, all during the bloodbath, plus little Rosa on Day 12; for Fjord, the District 5 male and District 6 female during the bloodbath, Nicola on Day 11, and Phil on Day 13.

“Wow, the stakes are very high right now,” Caligula says. “I can’t believe it.”

I pretend that I am a Capitolite. I pretend that this is the most exciting thing I’ve seen all year, and that these children and teenagers _deserve_ to die because of the crimes committed by their ancestors. It’s really not that bad to watch the Hunger Games when you absolve yourself from any crime. If you’re superior to them because they were born in another place, then it’s easy enough to distance yourself from the moral quandaries of pitting teenagers against each other in a death battle and then betting on them.

But I am not a Capitolite. I sit up straighter and lean into Pitch. I will not watch this as a Capitolite would. I see it for what it is.

Fjord shows up then, and everyone starts howling with excitement. There’s all sorts of screaming and enthusiasm and ecstatic cheering.

Pitch seizes the momentary chaos and leans over to whisper in my ear, “It’s almost over.”

_It’s almost over._

I close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to take in that one thought. When I open my eyes, I hold onto it.

The sun is low in the horizon, but there is still plenty of light left. The two tributes approach each other. This is it. This is the end.

“It’s been an honor to fight with you, Fjord,” Oceana calls out to him. “And I regret now I have to fight against you.”

“Whatever the outcome, no one will doubt the nobleness of your actions,” he replies. “I will relish our fight, not because I want either of us to die but because I know that it’s the culmination of our experience here in the arena.”

What the hell? Do they all talk like this in District 4?

Fjord peels off his backpack and casts it aside. He, like Oceana, has a sword at his hip and a knife on his thigh. But he lacks the bow and arrow that she does. Regardless, neither of them express any concerns that the fight will not be fair.

“Shall we begin, then?” Oceana asks.

Fjord sweeps his sword out of its sheath as an answer.


	63. Chapter 63

I have been watching Hunger Games since I was a small kid. They don’t censor them even when you’re a child, though most parents monitor what scenes their children watch. When you’re a little older, you’re expected to watch it in school if something exciting happens while you’re in lessons, and from thereon out, you have no way of escaping it. We all hate it. The excitement of the battles are lost on us, especially if it involves Careers because the other tributes have been wiped out. It’s a time of tragedy, not fun. We’re on edge because we know that these are real human lives being lost, not a bet that we might lose out on.

And yet here I am absolutely mesmerized by what I’m watching.

Oceana and Fjord are phenomenal, and I understand completely why they had no qualms about staying together until the end. Their swordplay, their footwork, their presence—it’s absolutely mystifying. These are professionals. These are people who have trained their entire lives for this one very moment. And they knew early on in the Hunger Games as their fellow Careers began to drop off that their final battle would be one that would be referenced in history books for hundreds of years. This isn’t the desperate swings and hacks of people battling for their lives. This is an art that has been perfected over the course of years.

The final battle is their life’s work, and it is a beautiful thing to watch.

Except, of course, for the fact that it will only end when one of them is dead.

Swords clang together and the tributes grunt with exertion as they strike and parry. Their shoes shuffle against the sturdy boards beneath their feet. They cry out when they bring down a particularly powerful blow, though the blow is only blocked or dodged. They make use of the entire space, dancing from one side to the other.

It isn’t a matter of skill, it seems, but of endurance. One of them will get tired and make a wrong move, allowing the other one to strike.

The tributes sweat profusely. I can see that they are each making little errors as time goes on. They’ve been fighting for over fifteen minutes. Their chests heave up and down with the exertion. They are able to nick each other here or there, drawing blood or giving bruises.

Oceana is not a fighter of close range. As they tire, it becomes apparent that she struggles more than her district partner. And it is for this reason that Fjord is able to take a good swing that slashes across her chest, followed by a thrust of the sword that digs deep into her ribs. Oceana stops as the sword pierces her body. Her own weapon clatters to the floor.

Fjord rips out the sword, casts it to the side, and catches Oceana as she falls.

He helps her lay down on the wooden boards.

Her blood-stained mouth moves slightly. Fjord leans in and listens to whatever she has to say. Our cameras are too far away, the microphones too distant, so we are left in suspense. But at long last, Oceana stops trembling and her body slackens.

The cannon fires.

Fjord leans over and places a gentle kiss on her forehead before closing her eyes.

“I am proud to present the Victor of the 141st Hunger Games, Fjord McGlough of District 4!” Janice Lovely’s voice blares out.

The entire room at the party goes into complete hysterics. People are screaming with excitement, shouting out cheers, blowing noisemakers, and just flat-out yelling. There are others who are crying because Oceana lost, but their sobs only add to the chaos that unfolds.

I sit there a little stunned because, of all things, I had enjoyed watching the final battle, and now I feel like such a disgusting freak.

I’m broken out of it when Pitch wraps me up into a hug that squeezes my ribs and causes me to yelp. He apologizes, but only loosens his grip slightly.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

We bid goodbye to the people near us, but they’re so lost in the moment that I don’t think they realize we exist anymore. Nobody cares about District 7 mentors when District 4 is all the rage right now. I’m relieved. Pitch and I slip out and hail a cab before anyone can tell us otherwise.

“You have a new apartment, you want to go there?” Pitch asks me as the cab pulls up.

“I’m tired . . . I don’t think I want to start something new right now.” Maybe we can go back to Isolde’s and crash for the night. I don’t think she’d mind.

But when we climb into the cab, Pitch gives a different set of directions that are not Isolde’s.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To my place. We can check out your apartment tomorrow. If that’s okay with you, that is,” he says.

“It’s been fumigated and the squatters have been removed?”

He laughs. “Yeah, everything is under control.”

I sit back in the cab and watch the city go by. I’ve done it.

I’ve survived my first Hunger Games as a mentor.


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some mental health issues. See the tl;dr at the bottom of the chapter for a summary in case you feel like you need to skip this chapter.

I don’t know what Pitch was carrying on about his apartment needing an exterminator. It looks pretty damned good for a place that was abandoned for two years. More proof that he probably just didn’t want to help me find an apartment and left Isolde and Esther to do it instead.

“You can choose where to sleep. There are three spare bedrooms,” he says.

“I want to sleep wherever you’re sleeping. . . . If that’s okay with you,” I add.

Pitch lends me a shirt to sleep in since none of my stuff is at his place. I eagerly remove the dress and cast it aside and pull the shirt over my head. It’s long enough that it might as well be a dress.

After I change, I head back out to the sitting room where Pitch is watching some sort of opera on television. It’s muted.

“Juniper, I’m proud of you,” he says as I take my seat on the couch.

I’m not sure what there is to be proud of me about. I’m relieved that the Hunger Games are over, but proud of my behavior? Nah. “I think I got more injuries as mentor than I did as tribute,” I tell him. And pretty much all of them are there because I got a bit out of control.

“But despite that, you made it through,” he says.

“Thanks to you.”

“I won’t say that I had no part in it, but I think you sell yourself short.”

I don’t respond. What is there to say? Like he said before, I had to get through it. I just had to make it through the first Hunger Games as mentor, and then I’d be better able to handle myself for future years.

“Pitch . . . I’d like to hear about Laurel, if you don’t mind,” I say.

He watches the images on TV for a moment before reaching over to the remote and turning it off. Then he settles back into the couch and looks at me. Studies me.

“Laurel was, in many respects, just like every other tribute: scared, overwhelmed, and hoping that there would be even the slightest chance to survive,” he begins. “But he required constant reassurance from me that he was doing everything that he was supposed to do. And I mean _constant_. He wanted to tell me about all the training stations he visited, who he interacted with, and what he ate for lunch so that I would tell him that he did it all right. And if I told him that there was anything he could improve on, well . . . he wouldn’t get upset, really; he’d just kind of look disappointed.”

I draw my legs up to my chest and rest my chin on my knees as I listen to Pitch’s story. Laurel wasn’t someone I knew personally. I had never met him. But I remember seeing him on TV. He was always shown to be strong and promising. The way that Pitch tells it, though, it almost seems like he was more of a character than a real person.

“I wasn’t handling things very well at the time. I had some . . . personal troubles going on with various Capitolites. I was trying to get out of a relationship that I didn’t want to be in, and it seemed like the deaths the year before were still too fresh.”

He takes a shaky breath and pauses. I don’t think he’s told this story to anyone.

“I had lost a girl the last year, and a boy the year before that. The deaths were piling on, and I was struggling with coping with the constant onslaught. The other District 7 victors were . . . not very willing to step in and help. That year, like this year, there was so much going on with everybody that trying to get someone to mentor to begin with was pretty damned hard. And the more I struggled, the less I saw them as an option to help me out.

“I didn’t _dislike_ Laurel. He just was too much for me to handle at the time. Any other year, I might have been able to deal with it. He didn’t talk as much as Green, but when he talked, I had to be fully engaged in everything he said. If I spaced out, he’d become upset and insist that I wasn’t giving him the attention he deserved. I probably wasn’t. And I know that he was scared. It was just that I _couldn’t_ do more than what I was doing. The weight of the dead kept me from focusing on the living. The pressure of an abusive relationship was wearing me out. So I started to see that I was failing even before the Hunger Games began, and there was nowhere I thought I could turn.

“So I tried to kill myself. It was the first day of the Hunger Games and I knew that I couldn’t help Laurel—or anybody—any more than I already had. In fact, I thought that I had done irreparable damage and condemned the tribute to certain death. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t watch another tribute die—I couldn’t know that I had failed to save another one.

“You know the monitoring device they put on you so that you can follow your tribute? That monitors you, too. And it was for that reason that I ended up in the hospital rather than in a grave. They brought me back, patched me up, and kept me there under the guise of appendicitis. For show, they actually removed my appendix. I’m not sure how they explained the other bandages or anything like that, but they did not want anyone to know that the stress of mentoring and all that it entails had driven me to suicide.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he recalls his experiences. I have no words to say anything, to comfort him. I don’t want to interrupt, so I sit quietly and watch him.

“When he died, I felt nothing. There were so many chemicals being pumped into me to keep me stable—mentally stable; they had already patched up my body—that I just watched this kid get dismembered but a muttation and I felt absolutely nothing. I hated myself later for it, but at the time, I just stared at what remained of his body and wondered why the hovercraft was taking so long to pick up the different parts and pieces.

“You know, at home when you’re mentally messed up, there are ways to get help. Psychiatrists, therapists, whatever. But here . . . you’re a mentor. You don’t get that. Nobody provides it to you, and even if they did, you’d know that you couldn’t trust them, so you just have to figure out a way to come to terms with it. It took me awhile. They weaned me off the medications, but then I found that I was only haunted by my own incompetence. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. All I could think about was how Laurel had come to me for help and I wasn’t strong enough to provide it for him. I couldn’t give him the comfort that he needed in order to make it through the Hunger Games, whatever the end. It wasn’t just the fact that he died, but the fact that I had abandoned him that tore me apart. I kept asking myself, If I had been there, could he have made it through?

“So a month after the Hunger Games ended, I tried to off myself again. Ended back in the Capitol hospital. Back on more medications, sedated into a stupor. They said that it was complications related to the appendicitis. This time they did provide me a shrink, but the man kept digging into me with all sorts of personal questions, asking me why I didn’t think I was able to be a mentor when I clearly was strong enough to win the Hunger Games. Finally Liberty came and physically took me from the hospital—you can imagine this old lady just slapping the hands of any doctor or nurse who tried to get her to let go of my wheelchair—and brought me back to District 7. The Capitol wasn’t thrilled about this and sent one of their own doctors to check up on me. Which is how I met Dr. Castillo.”

Pitch looks up at me now. He’s finished with his story and is waiting for my reaction. I should say something comforting to him, something to express my understanding at the pain he’s going through, even if I only know the tiniest piece after one year as mentor.

But instead I say, “So that’s what you did to end up on Lala’s shit list?”

Pitch gives a humorless laugh. “Ah, yeah. I guess I wasn’t able to meet her standards.”

I hate that damned woman. I hate her so badly. How could she see a man who’s suffering and tell him that he is a failure? I feel my chest bubbling at the thought of what I would do when I see her next.

We’re silent for a couple minutes. I’m still thinking about what he told me, the whole load of crap he had to deal with on his own for weeks and months. How it’s all just a giant snowball that rolls downhill, picking up not just snow but whatever debris it can until it’s a mess of junk that plows into an unsuspecting cabin and destroys it entirely.

“Are you doing okay now? Well, not okay, but you know,” I ask.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. I haven’t gotten to that point since, and I’m fortunate that the other victors have been supportive.”

“I wish you weren’t so popular with the Capitolites,” I say. “That makes all this so much worse.”

“I was doomed since I was chosen,” he replies. “From the moment my name came up as tribute, I was damned to a life of popularity.”

“You mean reaped?”

“I mean chosen.”

It takes a second for me to remember that Pitch’s Hunger Games were not “normal” Hunger Games. He and the other 23 tributes were hand-picked by the Capitol for participation in the fifth Quarter Quell. Over the course of a couple months, the Capitol citizens had rounds of voting, competitions, and games in order to narrow down which of the millions of teenagers around the country they wanted to see pitted together in the arena. And then once they were in, the Capitolites could vote or pay money to have certain areas of the arena opened up and blocked off; or have rivers turned on and off; or have Gamemaker events and muttations released. It was the ultimate shitshow of the Hunger Games. But it was also the most financially successful Hunger Games ever recorded.

So it doesn’t surprise me that those who chose Pitch for whatever qualities they admired—his appearance, skills, anything—would want to have him in other manners as well.

“But soon we’ll go back to District 7,” I say.

“After all the post-Hunger Games ceremonies and parties,” he reminds me.

Right. I had to go to some last year, but the majority of them I was unconscious for. We are so close to returning home, and now we have to get through a last few hurdles.

I look at my former mentor, and I see a simple man. A person. Someone who’s had to deal with years of shit with little to no help. He isn’t the glorified being that the Capitol makes him out to be. None of us are. And to think that any of us are strong simply because we walked away alive is just damned ridiculous. If it is painful for me to think about Rosa, and I knew that I did everything within my power to help her, then how painful is it to be reminded about a tribute you feel like you didn’t do enough to save—and have that reminder shoved in your face as an insult?

“Pitch . . . thanks for telling me about Laurel.”

He nods.

“Please don’t try to kill yourself again.”

A small smile lifts the corners of his lips briefly. “I won’t, don’t worry.” He reaches over and gently touches my cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr - Juniper asks Pitch about Laurel Shrubsprout, the tribute Pitch previously said he abandoned. Pitch reveals that he had a mental breakdown that year and tried to kill himself twice. However, the Capitol glossed this over and failed to provide him the resources he needed to get better on his own, telling him that because he survived the arena, he could deal with being a mentor. Eventually Liberty took him back to District 7 and the Capitol sent Dr. Castillo to check up on him.
> 
> Also, Juniper wishes that Pitch were not so popular with the Capitol because that adds to his stress but he reminds her that he specifically was chosen as tribute by the Capitol. In the 125th Hunger Games, all of the tributes were hand-picked by the citizens of the Capitol.
> 
> Juniper tries to process what he's told her.


	65. Chapter 65

My apartment is small, but comfortable. There is no padded screaming room or indoor pool or conveyor belt to get me from one side to the other. But I make myself at home in the master bedroom. One of the spare bedrooms I immediately convert into a library. Right now, I have no furniture, so I push all the boxes of books into the room to be sorted out later.

I invite Pitch, Esther, Isolde, and Hammer to lunch and we order fried chicken from a restaurant down the street. Esther and Isolde, with a little input from Hammer, swipe through a tablet as they find the best furniture that I can possibly have. “We’ll spare no expenses,” Isolde assures me. “Especially since it’s coming from your wallet and not ours. Haha.”

We’re finishing up our meals when the doorbell rings. It’s a strange noise, and at first I don’t realize what it is. But then Pitch gets up and heads to the door.

I hear him talking with someone, and I strain to listen in. After a minute, the door closes and he walks back into the sitting room.

“It’s Pythia Todner,” he tells me. “She’s here to do the Q&A we postponed.”

I wipe my greasy fingers on the cloth napkin on my lap. “Didn’t we already do that?” I ask, keeping my voice steady so I don’t betray my irritation.

“Apparently that one didn’t count.”

I look at the other victors in the hopes that they’ll have an out for me. They stare back. But I know they’re all glad that it’s me, not them, even though none will voice their thoughts.

“Alright, let me go clean up,” I say.

Pitch follows me back into the bedroom and closes the door behind us.

“She’s going to ask us about our relationship,” he says as I open my closet to find something moderately flattering but nothing that will show that I care about the interview.

“What’s new?” I grumble.

“We’ve been able to deflect most of the questions because we said that our commitment to being mentors came first,” he says. “Now we don’t have that excuse.”

I turn around and face him. “What do we do then? Tell them that we’re now focusing on the end of the Hunger Games parties?” That would never work. You can only use an excuse so much.

“I don’t think they’ll ever believe it if we say that we broke up. Or, at least, they’ll think we’re trying to draw attention to ourselves with drama.”

“So we just pull something out of our asses? About how we’re _so excited_ to get back to District 7 and spend all the time possible together?”

Isolde’s voice comes from the other side of the door: “C’mon, or she’s going to burst down the front door!”

Pitch shoots me a look. “Yes. Yes, we’re going to go with that.” Then he heads out to the hallway to buy us time while I change.

The Q&A session is held in the courtyard on the apartment complex’s property. It’s quiet and the weather is pleasant enough. Pythia has us sit down on a little marble bench that’s framed by a small oak tree. She instructs us how close to sit to each other (very close) and how to look at her rather than at the camera when answering her questions.

“Comfortable?” she asks as she settles into a seat one of the camera men brought over from another area of the courtyard.

Pitch and I nod and agree.

I am far from comfortable. But Pitch takes my hand and I try to focus on his warmth against me rather than on the strange cameras looming in my face.

Pythia gives us a reassuring smile before she turns to the camera and the show begins.

“Welcome everyone! Pythia Todner here, and I’ve just sat down with some of our favorite victors, Juniper Sadik and Pitch Yassen of District 7!”

She turns away from the camera and towards us. The camera swings around and repositions so that it has a better view. It’s so strange to not have a live audience in front of us. I don’t even know if this interview is currently being broadcasted or will be featured later in the day.

“Juniper and Pitch, you two were the mentors for Rosa and Green, respectively. Both your tributes were projected to die early in the Hunger Games, but we were pleasantly surprised to find that they did very well,” she says to us. “What are your thoughts on your tributes’ time in the arena?”

I knew going in that we’d be asked something like this, but I feel anguish in my stomach regardless. I’m conflicted between the sorrow I have for Rosa and the hatred I have for the Capitol. The two meld together, and I have a difficult time dealing with the mess of confusion inside me.

Pitch speaks first, as usual. It buys me an extra few seconds. “Within the arena, I was impressed by how quick he was to jump at opportunities that he came across. He made decisions that allowed you to see how clever he really was despite the challenges he faced. I enjoyed working with Green. He was quite the little character and loved to be around the whole team. His curiosity and willingness to share with us made him a memorable kid.”

Pythia “aww”s at Pitch’s response. Then she turns to me.

I try not to think of the cameras on me. Of the Capitol leering eagerly at the television screens, waiting for whatever bit of Rosa they can gobble up before she’s gone for eternity. Of her family at home, weeping and hysterical, hoping to have one last glimpse of their child.

“Rosa displayed strength that nobody thought she had within her. Her ingenuity led to many successes,” I pause to breathe. “I know that people at home were rooting for her, that people wanted to see what she had in her. I think we all saw one the best damned tributes the Hunger Games has ever had. Moreover, she was one of the best people I’ve ever known, and it was a privilege to work with her.”

Pythia reaches out and pats me on the leg.

I’m crying. Shit, I’m crying. Not the hysterical sobbing sort of crying but the quiet type that you don’t expect and you can’t stop.

I wipe away the tears that roll down my cheeks.

“It’s hard being a mentor,” Pythia says kindly as though she really knows what the hell I’m going through. “You work so hard for your tributes, but then they don’t make it. And we all did enjoy watching Rosa in the arena. She was such a sweetheart but she also had a bit of a fight to her, didn’t she?”

Can she stop asking me questions about Rosa? Please?

“She was pretty fucking awesome.”

“Oh . . . Juniper, we can’t air that sort of language,” Pythia says suddenly. “You want to try again?”

I stare at her. There is no other way to phrase it. Pitch gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

Pythia nods and then turns to Pitch. “Now that the Hunger Games are done, what do you think about our victor?”

“I haven’t the pleasure to meet him yet, but I have talked to Gill who only has positive things to say about him,” Pitch says politely. “He certainly performed well in the final battle. Both of them did.”

“What do you think was your favorite part of the Hunger Games? Your absolute favorite moment?” Pythia asks him.

I want to just tune it all out and pretend that I’m not here. Focus on some faraway distant place and let myself get pulled into nothingness. But I don’t. I force myself to remain present and to listen to Pythia and Pitch exchange dialogue.

“Only one moment? Hmm. The final battle was pretty epic.”

Easy answer. Everyone would agree that it was one of the best things from this Hunger Games. Also a safe answer because he won’t have to pull up any painful thoughts or memories.

“Yes, that was a good one,” Pythia says. “Now, I think we’ll get plenty more thoughts from you two about the Hunger Games in the days to come, but let’s go over some things that our viewers at home really want answered.”

Oh boy.

“Now that you are no longer mentoring and have time to focus on each other, where do you see your relationship going?” she asks.

“We don’t know, exactly,” Pitch says. “We are eager to look forward in that direction and explore the future together.”

Pythia beams at us.

“Now I have heard some rumors—and I just want you to tell me if they’re true or false so we know what to believe—but I have heard that you have gotten ‘stomach bugs’ several times now, Juniper,” she says to me. “Is there a chance that you could be pregnant?”

I snort. And try to cover it with a cough.

“No, I’m not pregnant,” I say. “Just puking a lot.”

“Not morning sickness?” she confirms. “Vomiting isn’t uncommon in the first few months of pregnancy.”

Damnit, woman! How many times do I have to tell you?! I want to strangle this lady for not just asking me this but also not allowing me to give her a simple answer. Why must everything be harped upon?! I want to disappear into the foliage behind me and pretend that none of this is happening. I’d like curl up into Pitch and let him answer. But I will not let this asshole get the best of me.

So I tell the best lie that I can think of at the moment, and I don’t care if what I’m saying is not appropriate for whatever young children at home can’t handle swearing.

“No. I had vomiting and diarrhea. A lot of it. Would you like me to go into details about how much fluid one can lose in a 24-hour period, or shall I spare you?”

Pythia blinks at me.

She looks at Pitch for help and he just shrugs. “You asked her.”

“Well, I hope that you’re feeling better,” Pythia says.

“Yeah. It’s probably just some intestinal parasite from eating something not cooked quite right,” I say casually. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

She shuffles her cards. “Another rumor I heard—and hopefully this one won’t receive quite so . . . personal details—is that you may not be, well, shall I say, mentally stable?”

I jerk my attention to her. “What?”

“Well, I have received some information from a reliable source that your emotions might be a little out of control at times,” Pythia says. “That you require frequent visits from a doctor, and that maybe this ‘stomach bug’ is a front for something entirely different.”

No no no no. I can’t handle this. They can’t know the truth! Damnit, Lala. I will personally kill that woman!

“I am not certain where you get your sources, Pythia,” Pitch says skeptically. He sounds convincing. But I’m certain that the anger inside me is starting to blossom onto my facial expression, and how well can I convince people that I’m not insane if I start freaking out on them?

Lala is, in many regards, one of the worst people I have ever met. And that’s saying quite a bit since my understanding of “worst” has changed entirely since coming to the Capitol last year. I am not surprised that she has found a way to punish us for what I did to her. The romance just wasn’t cutting it; we adapted too well. It made people think that we were “aww”-worthy. So now she has decided that if broadcasting our relationship wasn’t going to hurt us enough, then maybe it was time to dig in a little deeper and find something that would be more damaging.

You can’t have a mentally unstable victor. Pitch’s story is proof enough of that. When he was broken, they just patched him up from the outside because they couldn’t _dare_ admit that he needed help on the inside. So how will they handle a victor who is outed on national television as being nuts?

Whatever happened to chocking it up to my emotions for Pitch and letting it go, just like she said she would?

Damned Capitolite.

“Listen, you know I can’t name names. I have to protect the privacy of my sources. But the hospital staff confirm that they had a patient who says she was assaulted in the District 7 apartment last week,” Pythia says.

Fuck, what do I say to this? How do I even come up with a story fast enough _and_ make it convincing? Pitch is tense beside me. This line of questioning has thrown him off, too. He knows the sorts of things that they’re likely going to ask him, whether it’s about the Hunger Games and our tributes or about our relationship. But this is something that neither of us were prepared for. Pythnia Todner waits eagerly for our answer.

“’Assaulted’ may be a strong word,” I start carefully. “But there was an incident in which somebody interrupted Pitch and I, well . . . you know.”

This is exactly what they want to hear. Pythia’s eyes light up and she leans back in her seat. “Wow, that must’ve been awkward for you!”

All accusations of assault are off the table—for now—because she has finally weaseled out of me a piece of information that had only been assumed but had never been confirmed. Now all of Panem knows—“knows”—for official that Pitch and I are sleeping together and it’s not just a big pile of rumors. I don’t understand why it’s a big deal, but if this is what they’re willing to buy rather than the truth, then I’m fine with it.

It does strike me suddenly as I’m sitting here that my family and friends and all the people I know at home now view me in a vastly different light than they did a couple weeks ago. What are they thinking about me? Do they think that there’s something wrong with me if I’m getting into a relationship with a man fifteen years older than me who also happened to be my mentor in one of the most stressful times of my life? It doesn’t matter, I know, because I have to do what I have to do. Just like when I was in the arena, the goal was to survive regardless of the costs.

“Not as awkward as telling all of Panem,” Pitch mutters. This makes Pythia laugh.

“You two are just the cutest together,” she beams at us. “I really can’t wait to see what your relationship has in store for you. And Juniper, you just bought this adorable little apartment. Any chance we could get a glimpse of the life of the newest—oh, sorry, _second newest_ —Victor?” She leans in, eagerly awaiting my answer.

“If you close your eyes and imagine an empty building, that’s pretty much what my apartment looks like right now,” I say with mock levity. But really, that’s what it looks like, and I don’t have the skills to tell her _no_ right to her face. “One day I’ll figure out the right furniture and we’ll see about it then.”

Pythia will hold me to it, I know.

“Well, I’m so happy you two joined me today. It’s been great to catch up with you guys since our last Q&A. Is there anything else either of you would like to add?”

“Nope,” I say. “Think that covers it.”

“Yeah, I’m all out of anything else to say,” Pitch agrees.

Pythia giggles at us, and then turns to the camera. “This has been a Q&A with Juniper Sadik and Pitch Yassen of District 7. Hope to catch you next time for another Q&A!”

The cameras cut, and the cameramen turn to start disassembling the various pieces of equipment. Pythia comes over to us as we stand and takes one of each of our hands in her own.

“You two don’t have to be so reserved. Everyone loves you, and they’d love to know their young victor even better!” she tells us. “Don’t be afraid to show your affection.”

“Oh, I’ve always been reserved. It’s a hard habit to break,” I tell her politely. “Thank you.”

And then I take my hand out of hers and turn to leave, dragging Pitch along behind me. Pythia watches us leave before she begins to order the crew around, instructing them where to put their belongings and how to handle equipment that they probably are more familiar with than she is.


	66. Chapter 66

Esther, Isolde, and Hammer want to know how it went as soon as we come back inside. They explained that they tried to watch out the windows without being seen, but they could hear very little besides Pythia’s laughter occasionally drifting in the breeze.

“Well,” I say. “I’ve always wanted Panem to know when I’ve had diarrhea.”

Esther giggles. “You didn’t say that, did you?”

I give her a sharp look, but it’s hard to really be annoyed at her. “They thought I was pregnant. I’d rather have them think I have diarrhea than that I’m pregnant.”

Isolde bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles. Everyone stares at her. The more she laughs, the harder she laughs until she’s on the floor weeping and laughing.

“Okay, once—and I’m not making this up, I swear—once, they thought that Hammer—” she begins.

“Hey, hey. You’re not supposed to tell this story,” Hammer interrupts her.

“No, no, let me! It’s great!” She has to pause to hiccup and cough between her peals of laughter. “Anyway. They thought Hammer was having an orgy because he brought an extra pair of shoes with him to some event.” Then she starts laughing again.

No one says anything. We all just exchange looks and Hammer shrugs shyly. “No one ever thought they were mine. They made up some other person and said that myself, my girlfriend, and this other person were having wild fun times together.”

“They—they actually have this fictional person on the census,” Isolde says. She’s gasping for breaths, and her cheeks are glistening. “Like he just—he just appeared! Overnight!”

“That’s absurd,” Esther says.

“Exactly!” Isolde exclaims. She managed to push herself into a sitting position and her laughter slows down.

“Once everyone thought I killed my mentor,” Esther then says.

“What?” I demand. “No way.”

“Yeah. Calico had to run back to District 8 because her mom wasn’t feeling well, and there was this big mix-up that was pretty bad. They kept it hush-hush because I’m a victor, but I was facing prison time, maybe even execution.”

I shiver. That must’ve been terrifying. “What happened?”

“Calico returned from District 8 and everyone was very confused. The Peacekeepers apologized and let me go. Calico chewed them out for me. And then chewed me out for not standing up for myself.”

Geeze.

“They once thought that Isolde was dating her professor—like this creepy 80-year-old guy—because she went to his office hours,” Hammer says, eager to share a bit about his fellow District 1 victor now that she has shared something about him.

But Isolde doesn’t try to keep him quiet. “Yeah, it was really messed up. We only saw each other in the context of school, either the classroom or his office, the latter of which I was alone with him but the door was wide open.” She grins. “So I told them that I was. Old Professor Jones and I were joining Hammer’s orgies.”

“So what you’re telling me is that this stuff happens all the time?” I ask.

Isolde nods. “And normally it’s really dumb shit. I mean, obviously Esther’s was serious and needed to get resolved, but the rest of the time, people end up forgetting about it.”

That makes me feel better. Obviously I’d be terrified if I were in Esther’s position, but otherwise it sounds like rumors could easily be brushed off.

“But they can also destroy you, too,” Esther says, somberly. “So be careful. Remember that one victor—shoot, I forgot his name—whose wife ended up leaving him because of a rumor? He drank himself to death.”

“Oh, yeah, him,” Hammer agrees. “I can’t remember his name, either. He’d be like 100 years old now, though.”

Pitch turns to me. “We’ll get through this,” he says. “You handled yourself very well.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“They grill you about Rosa?” Isolde asks. She now has the bucket of chicken in her arms and is running her finger around the bottom, gathering up the little bits and pieces of breading that managed to escape.

“Yeah,” I say. “That and everything else.”

Pitch explains to the others, “We can only assume that Lala told everyone that Juniper is having some trouble, so Pythia outright asked if Juniper is mentally unstable.”

“What did you tell them?” Esther asks. She takes a sip from her drink.

“That I’m not, of course,” I say. “That somebody interrupted Pitch and I having sex—I really can’t believe I had to say this to the entire world to keep them from thinking I’m insane, by the way—and there was an incident related to that.”

“Welcome to the Capitol,” Isolde says sympathetically.

“And there will always be more interviews,” Hammer agrees. “Isolde and I have one tomorrow morning. Lucky us.”

“For real. I don’t think it’ll be nearly as exciting. ‘Yep, my tribute was ripped apart. Nope, I don’t know what did it. Nope, I haven’t seen the body. Nope, I don’t have any pictures to show you.’” Isolde makes a face.

“They’ll probably want one with us,” Esther says to me. “You, me, and Elijah. Haven’t received any notifications for it, though.”

“How long does this last?” I ask them all, looking between them. “None of us mentored the victor, so how long before they get bored with us and we can go home?”

“We need to stay in the Capitol until the presentation of the victor, at least,” Pitch answers. He reaches over and takes the chicken bucket from Isolde, but casts it aside when he sees its empty. “That requires a few days to put the kid back together. Fortunately he wasn’t in too bad of shape, but they also need to prepare all the decorations, get the wardrobes together, and all that. As soon as they tell us, I’ll let you know.”

A few days. And then I get to go home! I’ll be free from all this, at least for another year.

But, I know, I will never be free from Rosa.


	67. Chapter 67

_It’s the final battle, and those of us who remain—District 1 female, District 4 male, District 6 male, and myself—have been herded into a beautiful, lush lawn where three of us will inevitably die. With the District 1 female and the District 6 male engaged in a battle, the District 4 male turns on me. I scramble up a tree at the edge of the lawn, but the tree shakes me loose._

_I fall onto my back. The District 4 male slashes a gash across my chest, and I scream in agony. I struggle to get away from him, but he repositions himself to go in for the final kill, and he’s just too damned strong._

_I’m going to die._

_I am going to die._

_But that’s not why I am here. That is not why I was reaped._

_I grab the hatchet that had fallen from my hand when the tree threw me. It’s a stretch, and I almost don’t make it as my bloodied fingers clasp around the handle. Then, as the District 4 male’s sword comes down, ready to thrust into my chest, I swing the hatchet around and slash his arm. He falters with the sudden injury, and he nearly drops the sword. I push him off me._

_Then I am on top of him. I bring down my hatchet into his neck. Blood spurts out, spraying me with warm, hot liquid across my face and my body. My arms. I’m getting drenched in it as I pull back my hatchet and bring it down once more, this time on his chest._

_The rage is within me. The fire, the passion, the anger. It’s boiling and seething within me. I did not come to the arena to die. I came to the arena to show the Capitol how much I hate them and how much I hate their Careers and how much I want everyone to pay for what they are doing to us back home and to what they were going to do to Willow Elowen._

_Once more, the hatchet falls. The cannon has sounded long ago._

_I cannot use up all my fire here. There is no use desecrating the dead. I heave myself to shaking feet and I turn around just in time to see the District 1 female finishing off the District 6 male._

_She is wounded, but so am I. There is a great gash on my chest below my neck. My left arm, splinted though it is, is still broken and causes me pain. But the District 1 female is limping from a wound on her calf, and she is nursing another wound on her side. Still, she grins at me with a ravenous smile._

_“Do you think you’re one of us, District 7?” she asks me. She licks her chapped lips and comes closer._

_I will never win against her if it’s down to her sword and my hatchet. Each uneven step she takes, she’s covering ground. She knows that I am no Career like she is, and she knows that she will easily knock the hatchet right out of my hands with her sword. I take a risk—one that means that, if I fail, I will certainly die._

_“Absolutely not,” I spit out. And before she can expect it, I heave up my hatchet and send it sailing right towards her heart. It hits its mark and lodges in her chest._

_The District 1 girl staggers backwards and falls to the ground. I force myself to walk over towards her where I kick away her sword. Then I reach down and wrench my hatchet out of her body._

_The cannon booms._

_I am the victor._

_I have done it. I have killed four people in order to get out of this nightmare alive._

_I collapse to the ground, my wounds suddenly very real and very painful. I feel lightheaded as the blood drains out of me through the gash on my chest. If the hovercraft doesn’t come soon, I will die, too. Is that so bad, I wonder. Is it so bad to die? It’s the lack of blood that’s talking now, and I try to hold on, pushing myself to my knees and balancing with the support of the hatchet._

_Janice Lovely pronounces me the winner of the 140 th Hunger Games, but her voice is so distant that I don’t listen to it._

_The sound of the hovercraft draws my attention._

I wake up alone in bed.

The dream has me shaken, but not in the way I thought it would. It leaves me wondering, did becoming victor really accomplish anything? I saved Willow Elowen from certain death, but is saving the life of one person of great significance if you have to kill four others?

At least, I tell myself, a Career didn’t win. But even that is little comfort to me because I recall in the back of my mind something that Pitch said about Careers and District 7.

Unable to sleep, I stand up and head out of my room into the kitchen. The house is still pretty sparse, of course, but the pantry and the refrigerator are all well-stocked. Hammer saw to that. I’m not sure if food is his highest priority or if he was trying to apologize for eating all of my fried chicken while I was being interviewed, but at least I don’t have to deal with finding food right now. I open the fridge and grab a can of milk when I turn around in the faint glow cast from the open fridge door, I see that there is someone on my couch. I start and I look around for the nearest object I can use to defend myself. But then I see that it’s Pitch and not a crazy murderer or reporter.

I close the fridge door and walk into the sitting room.

“Everything okay?” I ask him cautiously.

“Hmm?”

I sit down on the other side of the couch. “Want some canned milk?” I ask as I struggle to pop open the top.

“Oh, those are supposed to last longer,” he says as he watches me fumble with the tab. “But no thank you, I’m fine.”

To my relief, there is no hiss of carbonation. I take a sip. Slightly metallic in taste, but not terrible. Though if I were doing my own shopping, I’d rather have the stuff in the carton or jug.

“What are you doing out here?” I inquire.

“I just . . . was thinking.” His voice drifts off a bit.

I give him a moment to see if he’ll provide any more information. When he doesn’t, I say, “Am I allowed to know?”

“It’s nothing of great importance. Do you want to take a walk?” he asks.

Now? I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s about 3:00 AM.

“Is there some great nature place that’s open at this hour?”

“Go change,” he says.

Alright. I stand up, put the can of milk in his hand, and head to my bedroom. A walk sounds most welcomed right now. I haven’t had the opportunity to get out and stretch my legs lately. Between being cooped up at the training center and trying to hide from the world in various apartments, I’ve seen little of the natural daylight. Or even the night sky.


	68. Chapter 68

The cab drops us off at the base of a mountain. It’s a real mountain, but it’s obviously a tourist destination, at least during the day. Right now, its walkways and paths are abandoned. The gift shop and restaurant are boarded up. Everything is so silent that it may actually be as close to nature as one can get in the fringes of the Capitol. I can even hear an owl cry out somewhere in the distance.

Pitch and I walk side-by-side on one of the paths that zig-zags up the side of the mountain. We pause to allow me to catch my breath frequently, and Pitch offers me water.

“Thanks,” I say as I hand the canteen back to him. “Is it okay if we rest here?”

I don’t want for an answer before I plop down on the gravel path.

Pitch sits down next to me.

“What’s bothering you, Pitch?” I ask him.

He picks up a small rock and tosses it down the side of the mountain. We hear it clatter about before falling silent into the base of a bush no doubt.

“Trying to figure out how to break off my current Capitol affair,” he says.

“Oh. I have no advice on how to handle that,” I admit.

“I thought your advice involved breaking somebody’s arm and kicking them in the crotch,” Pitch says wryly.

I snort.

The lights from the city are visible here, of course. Even on the side of this mountain, we can’t avoid the Capitol. But at least here it looks like a separate entity, something that we are not currently part of. I know that anyone looking out their window right now would never be able to see us. We cease to exist in the present for nearly every person in the Capitol.

“Pitch, I’ve been thinking. You said that District 7 was at one point supposed to be a Career district. Is that true?”

He rolls a small rock between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. “Yes. Not officially, but it was more than rumors. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’ve had plenty of wins in the last couple decades—you, me, Vesa, Elm. Though technically this was before you were reaped. Still, we also have Bris and Liberty, even if their wins are a bit older. With so many of us winning so close together, there was talk to have District 4 booted out of the Career pack and to add District 7. Many were in favor for it.”

“In District 7? People actually wanted that?” I ask with disgust.

“Some people did. Thought it would give their kids a better chance,” he explains. “People thought District 4 was getting too boring. They actually thought that all the Career districts were becoming too soft. There was a stretch in time—from Terra in the 129th Hunger Games until Hammer broke the streak in the 134th Hunger Games—in which not a single Career district won. It doesn’t seem like much, but that’s five years of no Career victory.

“Some in the Capitol were seriously pissed. And then when Elijah won, that was like a slap in the face to them. Not only was he from a non-Career district, but he managed to kill three Careers after being blinded. There were plans to uproot and change the entire Career situation, possibly even allowing official training. Fortunately, when Hammer won, most of those thoughts disappeared, and Isolde’s victory the year after solidified the fact that no so-called ‘Career academies’ were needed. But there were still people in favor of replacing District 4 with District 7. Saw more potential in us.”

“That would have been terrible if we were a Career district,” I say. “It’s shitty enough that people sometimes lump me in with them.”

“You volunteered and you were a strong player,” Pitch says.

“I didn’t volunteer, I—”

“Call it what you want. Your name was not the original one that was drawn. You might not have made a formal declaration of volunteering, but you did take that girl’s place of your own free will.”

“What else was I supposed to do? They had reaped a cripple!”

“What were you ‘supposed’ to do? You were supposed to sit back and let them kill her,” he says.

I glare at him.

“I’m only saying that that’s what you were expected to do, just like all the other girls of reaping age. It’s supposed to be humiliating and unfair.”

“It was more than unfair, it was murder in the most obvious form.”

“I know that.”

I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. I can see stars peeking through the thin wisps of clouds in the sky.

“When I saw you push through the crowd, I was confused. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. District 7 hasn’t had a volunteer in many, many years, but even so, it’s standard for most volunteers to announce ‘I volunteer!’ or something of the sort. Then you just climbed up on the stage and told that girl to get out of there. . . . I knew I had to mentor you. It wasn’t that I thought you were a shoe-in for victory, but I admired the simplicity and determination with which you took her place. There was no arrogance or display of sacrifice. You just told her to get out. I figured that if any tribute I had would have a shot at winning, it would be you.

“You and me, we’re not like the other tributes that come onto the stage. Many kids have the strength and the skills to win, but they don’t have the drive to get it done. We do.”

“So did Rosa,” I say.

“Yes,” he agrees. “So did Rosa.”

She was just too little. Too young and too inexperienced. She was just a kid.

I bury my head in my knees and begin to sob. All the pain I had been holding in pours out of me. My shoulders heave as I cry, my body wracked with sadness. The tears run down my face and soak through my jeans. I can think of nothing but Rosa and how she was taken from this world for completely unnecessary reasons, and how none of us will ever see her again. I had been so angry at her for manipulating us all, but wasn’t that just the way the game was played? Wasn’t she one step ahead of everyone else? The pain is immense, and it has wrenched itself tightly around my heart, clasping the vital organ and threatening to stop its beating. I struggle to expel it all, and I know as my tears dry up that it will never fully disappear. There will always be pain and there will always be sadness.

But Rosa, I think, was not one who would want either. I think of her face when she died. Not fear, not sadness, not surprise. It was nothing but respect for Oceana. Perhaps it was only the last bits of her brain dying that made her face express that emotion, but I cannot get it out of my head.

I wipe my eyes and my nose on my sleeve.

“Pitch?”

“Yeah?”

“You know how you want to get out of that relationship? I think you should tell her to just go fuck herself.”

He gives a dry laugh. “Is that what you’d tell her?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you would tell Quintus?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Juniper,” he warns, all humor gone from his voice.

“I know. I’ve knew that the moment I volunteered.”


	69. Chapter 69

It’s another couple of days before we hear the official schedule of events. There are several interviews scattered here and there, and a couple of parties—none of which I have to attend, Pitch tells me—and then there is the presentation of the victor. That party, that night, I will need to be present.

And then we can go home.

Pitch arrives home drunk one night, and it’s all I can do to get him to get into the shower and clean himself up. He keeps trying to sit down on the couch and tell me about something or another, but he gets distracted with this terrible figurine of a potato that Isolde got me as a housewarming gift. (In all fairness, I keep getting distracted by it, too.) So once I hear the shower running, I’m relieved at I’m not going to have to herd him back into the bathroom again.

I lose myself in a book, but when Pitch comes out, it’s over an hour later. He flops down on the couch and looks at me.

“I assume there is some sort of explanation,” I say.

“I can’t drink? Didn’t know I’d be policed,” he says defensively.

“Pitch, you haven’t had a drop of alcohol since we came to the Capitol, and now you come home very clearly intoxicated.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Remember that Capitolite I was having trouble with?” he asks. “I told her to go fuck herself. Not in so many words, but she complained about me and I told her that I was fine being dismissed from her service.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Geeze. How’d she take that?”

“She got me drunk and then cried a lot, and then eventually told me that she didn’t need to see me again,” he says. He leans his head back and rubs his eyes. “She said that I didn’t provide her the emotional support that she needed because I wouldn’t comfort her when she was crying.”

“Sounds like a winner of a human being.” But that is the sarcastic understatement of a year. No decent human being would require such companionship from someone else to begin with. We aren’t allowed to say that, though.

To distract myself from saying anything I shouldn’t, I head to the kitchen and start to reheat some leftovers. “Hope you like teriyaki,” I say.

“Teriyaki sounds great,” Pitch says. Then he’s moving off the couch, tacky potato decoration in hand. “Isolde?”

“Yeah, that’s from her,” I say. “I’m not sure why.”

He tosses it up and down in his hand for a moment before setting it on the counter between us. Then he looks intently at me. A little too intently. I’m used to him staring at me to assess my thoughts and emotions and actions, but this is a little bit much.

“Juniper, I want to kiss you,” he says.

“No. You’re drunk,” I state clearly.

“When I’m not drunk, is it okay if I—”

“No,” I interrupt.

“Are you just saying that because I’m drunk?”

“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to kiss me, drunk or not,” I snap.

His teriyaki isn’t done reheating, but I open up the microwave, pull the plate out, and slap it down in front of him. I do not want to think about kissing Pitch. Holding hands, hugging, whatever. Sure. But kissing takes it to a whole new level that borders on something entirely different. This is supposed to be a fake romance. And certainly not one made on drunken decisions, even if he isn’t drunk out of his own free will.

“Eat up,” I say to him before I pick up the potato and head back to my room. I lock my door behind me.

I lay in bed and hold onto one of my extra pillows for comfort as I try to sort out my thoughts. They say that what a person says while drinking is what is actually going through their mind. I don’t want that going through anybody’s mind. I don’t want to be kissing anyone. I don’t _like_ anyone, not like that. And certainly not my old mentor. How far will this relationship actually go? At what point can we pull the plug?

Fine. We’ll have to discuss this in the morning.

But morning comes, and we don’t get to discuss it because I receive a notification that I’m scheduled for an interview with Esther and Elijah at 10:00 AM. Pitch is still asleep, so I leave him a note and head outside to hail a cab.


	70. Chapter 70

The interview is held at a local hotel in a private room made specifically for this type of stuff. Ornate carvings and beautiful artwork hang on the walls. There are great sconces and chandeliers everywhere throughout the hotel as I’m lead back to the interview room. The hotel staff chatter happily about how wonderful and expensive everything is there, and that I didn’t need to worry because I would be taken care of just fine.

Well, thanks; I hadn’t thought there was any reason to worry. Should I be worried?

He leaves me as soon as I step into the room and join the other two victors.

Another staff member swoops in on me and introduces herself, and then there are several people applying a bit of makeup to make sure my skin isn’t shiny under the bright lights, and they fix my hair and straighten my pins, and they use a lint roller and press to ensure my collar is as crisp and fresh as it can be. At last I am shown to my seat between Elijah and Esther.

Our interviewer today is Caligula Klora. He is flush with excitement and additional coats of powder are needed to even out his face. As I watch them add little puffs to his cheeks, I wonder what this man does for the rest of the year. Does he make big bucks doing this interviewing stuff that he just skates through the rest of the year, or does he scrape by with a door-to-door salesman job?

When everything is straightened out, Caligula tells us that we’re going to be live in just five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!

“Hello hello, ladies and gentlemen!” he greets the viewers at home. “I have with us tonight three special guests from one of the strongest alliances we saw in this year’s Hunger Games. May I present Elijah from District 5, Juniper from District 7, and Esther from District 8.”

The camera pans over all of us.

I wish Pitch were here with me. I swallow the thought and tell myself that it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was going to be part of this interview anyhow.

“Your tributes’ alliance made it all the way until Day 4. That’s pretty impressive! And even after District 8’s Taylor was killed, the other two remained together until they were separated by an event. Elijah, can you tell me how your tributes met up? I mean, where did this alliance begin?”

“I’m sure it comes as a complete shock to know that they met up in the training center. After they trained together, they decided that they would form an alliance,” Elijah responds.

“That’s a classic place for tributes to make alliances for certain,” Caligula agrees. I can’t tell if he’s dumb or if he’s just trying to cover up Elijah’s shitty answer. “What cemented that bond between them? What drew the three of them together when they were training?”

“I would imagine—and I’m not certain because I wasn’t there while they were training—but I think it was the desire to not get murdered,” Elijah says.

And I’m pretty sure that’s the last we’re going to hear from Elijah tonight.

Caligula looks a little flummoxed for a moment, but he recovers quickly and turns to me. “Juniper, sweet little Rosa displayed some outstanding skills in the arena. Do you think that she showed those skills to her fellow allies beforehand?”

“She showed them enough so that they knew she was capable of being a strong member of their alliance, but she didn’t show them everything,” I say.

“What makes you say that?” he asks.

“Because she was my tribute. I knew her better than most people in the past few weeks, and I can say for certain that many of the traps she laid were not things she advertised before they made the alliance.”

“Very good. Now Esther, your Taylor ended up being the first to die. It was certainly a tragic end. Do you think that she still had things to contribute to her alliance if she were not killed right then?”

“You mean if she were just injured but managed to get away before she was mortally wounded?” Esther asks for clarification.

“Yes, that’s it,” Caligula replies.

Now _that_ is a terrible question. I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into the underside of the seat of the chair. I ache for Esther knowing that she will have to not only relive Taylor’s death but share with everyone whether she deserved to live or die.

“That’s a hard question to answer, Caligula,” she says politely. “I think it would depend upon how wounded she was. In most circumstances, yes, she still would have been able to contribute. I believe that even if she were wounded, she was still a very good fighter. However, if she was wounded very badly, she, like anyone else in her position, probably wouldn’t have been much use to the alliance.”

“But, of course, alliances aren’t the only reason that people live or the only reason they have value,” I say without being asked. Because if I say nothing at all, then am I any better than the Capitolites? “Taylor was a good person and she was a good teammate. It’s clear that the other two missed her after she was killed.”

Esther finds my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze before dropping it.

“Aww, your tributes were all pretty close,” Caligula says.

“Yes, of course. They managed to get out of the bloodbath together. That’s a pretty big ordeal and it only cemented their alliance further,” I respond.

Why am I talking so much? I can feel the anger within me, and I’m afraid that if I don’t shut my mouth soon, I’m going to say something stupid. Or, at very least, be banned from speaking like Elijah, and then Esther will have to carry the entire interview on her own.

“Juniper, what were your thoughts when Rosa lead the Careers straight for Nicola?” he asks me. I think this is a question that is most likely supposed to be directed to Elijah, but had to be redirected to me. It’s stupid because it’s not like I’m going to say anything too eye-opening.

“I was proud that she was as crafty as she was,” I say. “And I have nothing against Nicola. She was a good person and she always looked out for Rosa. She made their time in the arena more comfortable, that’s for certain. But ultimately Rosa had to choose between Nicola and her own survival, and she made the decision that many of us would.”

I think I am starting to get the hang of these interview things. Or maybe I’m just actually going insane.

“Beautifully said,” Caligula compliments me. “Now I like Rosa’s use of the oil. We had all forgotten about that. Do you think she was holding onto it intentionally, or was it just one of those items that she never really let go of. . . .”

And so the interview continues. Caligula directs the questions either to myself or Esther, or sometimes to the both of us. But it’s very clear that Elijah is no longer included in it. I don’t think this bothers him, but it’s also possible that he wants to get his anti-Capitol hat on and preach to whoever will listen. I’m willing to listen, but I don’t think I’m the intended audience.

The interview lasts about half an hour total. When it is finished, Caligula thanks us for joining him and then says goodbye to the camera. At last we are told that we are dismissed but there are refreshments on the opposite side of the room if we would like them.

Elijah is gone before anyone has a chance to say anything to him. That leaves just Esther and me. We bypass the refreshments and mosey out into the hotel.

“You want to share a cab?” I ask. “Can drop you off on the way to my place.”

“Nah, I think I’d like to walk to the bus stop. I need to get some exercise. You are welcome to join me if that’s not going to be too far out of your way,” Esther says.

“Sure,” I say.

As we head out of the hotel, all I can think of is that I managed to survive an interview without Pitch by my side.


	71. Chapter 71

“Where’s Pitch?” Esther asks as soon as we are out on the street.

I shrug. “Back at my place, probably,” I say.

Esther eyes me curiously. “This is the first time I’ve seen you out and about without him. Is everything okay?”

Honestly, I really don’t want to start complaining about him right now. Yeah, I’m a little weirded out about what happened last night, but he was drunk, right? So it’s not like he _really_ wanted to kiss me. But at the same time, I can’t help but shake the nagging feeling that things are going to change for us very soon, and I don’t really want that. I just want to know that he’s my friend.

“Yeah, I think so. I just thought I’d try an interview by myself,” I respond lamely.

Esther rolls her eyes. “Geeze, Juniper. You can _tell_ me. I’m your friend, remember?”

Friend? Yes, I think she is my friend. I hadn’t really thought too much about what relationship category other people fall into because I was so often consumed by what was supposedly going on between Pitch and myself.

“I’m just a little uncertain about the relationship thing,” I admit. “Last night, he came home drunk and said that he wanted to kiss me and of course I said no because he was drunk, but then I started wondering if we’re going to have to make this relationship into something more than what it is.”

“And you don’t want to?” Esther confirms.

“No, I don’t. I like Pitch as a friend.”

Esther and I walk in silence for a minute. I try not to be too enticed by the shop displays. I don’t want any more attention than what I already have. To my relief, people don’t look nearly as interested in me as they did a couple weeks ago when my tribute was still in the running and I was the newest victor. I’m getting “old” now that they have Fjord as the most recent champion.

“Did you meet Joule Leonard?” Esther asks me.

I shake my head. “No, who is that?”

“One of the victors for District 3,” Esther explains. “She married a Capitol man about 30 years her senior.”

“Ugh, that’s unfortunate.”

Esther shakes her head. “No, she did it intentionally. He was a good person who was able to protect her from some of the harsher realities of being a victor. They didn’t love each other; it was just a good match. Maybe they eventually fell in love, I don’t know.”

“Like some sort of arranged marriage,” I say.

“Pretty similar. But they arranged it themselves.”

“So why are you telling me this?” I ask. “Am I supposed to marry Pitch?”

“I’m not telling you that,” she replies. She kicks a little stone across the ground that’s in her path and watches it bounce out into the street. “But sometimes people end up with those they don’t love romantically because it offers them protection.”

“And would you do that?” I ask. “Marry some Capitolite—or even a victor—way older than you who you don’t have any romantic attraction to?”

“I might,” she admits. “If it came down to it. I don’t want to be like some of the other victors.”

Some of the other victors such as Pitch. I don’t know to what extent she knows about Pitch’s personal engagements, so I don’t bring it up. But I do know that marrying a victor wouldn’t offer you the same protection as marrying an influential Capitolite. And there is no way in hell I’d marry one of those beasts.

“Anyway, as I said before. Pitch is a good person. And he always watches out for you.”

On that point, she isn’t wrong. He has been my pillar during this whole ordeal, even when his duty as my mentor was no longer required. Despite all the shit he had going on, he managed to make sure that I stayed as in control of myself as I possibly could, offering guidance and encouragement.

“So . . . are you like a matchmaker? Is that your victor talent?” I ask.

She laughs. “Maybe that’s what I should be,” she says. “But I just don’t want you to write him off. Being a victor is very different than being a regular citizen. We have to adjust differently.”

Eesh. I don’t even know how to respond to all this.

“Oh, here’s my bus,” Esther says as she motions to a bus that’s pulling up half a block away. “I’ll talk to you soon!” And then she takes off running, backpack bouncing on her back.

I watch to make sure that she gets into the bus okay and the bus pulls away from the curb. I push away all that she said and tell myself that I’ll deal with it later. My eyes migrate to a bookstore I see about two blocks away on the other side of the street. This is a different bookstore than the one I visited earlier, so I’m hopeful that Quintus Laurentinus will not be there this time. I mosey down the street before crossing and entering the bookstore.

Once more, I am able to immerse myself within the world of literature. I choose titles that intrigue me, and some that just have funny covers. It doesn’t matter. As a victor, I have pretty much an endless supply of cash, and it’s not like these purchases will be wasteful. If read something I know I’ll never read again, or if I end up with a book I have no desire pursuing, I’ll just donate it or give it to someone in District 7. Books, unlike food, don’t spoil or go back, and they can be shared even after they have been consumed.

As I sit down at a table inside the coffee shop with one of my recent purchases (the rest are being sent to the apartment), I find that I have no ability to concentrate. Esther’s words keep appearing in my head, and no matter how hard I try to block them out, I realize that there is truth to them. Being a victor is not all it’s claimed to be, and sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to do just to protect yourself from having to do worse. I’m going to have to face Pitch again at some point in the near future, so I might as well get it over with. I chug the rest of the coffee, pick up my purse and my book, and head outside to call a cab.


	72. Chapter 72

Pitch is gone when I get back to my apartment. He’s added to my note that he has his own interview at 3:00 PM. It’s 2:00 PM. He left pretty early to get there in time.

Well, nothing I can do about it. I grab my book, flop onto the couch and begin to read in order to distance myself from my own thoughts.

The door opens at about 5:30 PM and Pitch steps in. He closes the door quietly, clearly unaware that I am sitting here on the couch. He takes a deep breath and then wanders further into the apartment. I roll my eyes. Talk about unobservant. So I flutter the pages of my book. He snaps to attention and looks at me immediately. I can’t read his expression. Is it embarrassment or regret? Or does he just look disappointed that I’m here.

But he comes over to me regardless. I move my legs out of the way so he can sit on the opposite end of the couch.

“Juniper, I’d like to apologize for last night,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” I say sharply.

He raises an eyebrow.

I sit up on my end of the couch and set my book on the coffee table. “You just caught me in the middle of a chapter, that’s all.”

Pitch leans forward with his elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes. He’s probably trying to decide what to do with me right now. How to fix the fact that the dynamics of our relationship may have changed dramatically with that one comment.

“I just enjoy being friends with you, that’s all,” I say. “I don’t want to lose that.”

He looks up at me. “Yeah. I get it.”

After a moment, he leans over and picks up my book off the table. “You went back to the bookstore?”

“Not the same one. A different one.”

His fingers flip through the pages of the novel. It’s nothing of great significance, just a little adventure book I picked up written by someone from District 5. As with all books, there’s a bit of censorship, or at least the authors have an understanding that there are certain topics they aren’t allowed to outright write about. So many books take place in alternate worlds or different realities that aren’t overtly “better” than Panem. Just different. And when I’m reading, I’ll take “different” over what I experience on a daily basis.

“I still want to be friends with you, Juniper, don’t get me wrong.” He fiddles with the cover of the book as though it will reveal to him great secrets if he messes with it enough. “But at some point, we’re going to have to be more obvious about our relationship—the fake one, that is—and I guess I just want to do it on our own terms, not because the Capitol is pushing us.”

“So you want to kiss me now because you know you’ll have to kiss me later when there are cameras,” I say skeptically.

“You put it that way and it sounds pretty dumb,” he grumbles, setting the book back on the table.

Why does it matter? The Capitol will be forcing our hands regardless of whether we speed things up or not. Because that’s all we’re doing: accelerating something they’ve pushed onto us.

“This is why I don’t drink,” he mutters as he sits back in his seat.

A random thought occurs to me. I’ve been blaming the Capitol, and rightly so, but it wasn’t the Capitol that originally started this rumor. I give a little snort. “To think this was all Rosa’s doing,” I say.

Pitch looks at me. “Seems like a million years ago.”

“Well, I guess if there’s one thing that’s good about it all, at least I didn’t have do to those first few interviews and parties by myself,” I concede.

“I saw you on TV today,” Pitch says. “You did well. Held your own pretty good.”

“I admit I’m a little jealous of Elijah’s tactic,” I say.

Pitch only shakes his head. “Don’t follow in his footsteps. The man is going to get himself—or someone he loves—killed if he doesn’t watch is tongue.”

Still, it’s pretty ingenious. I don’t admit this to Pitch. It’s pretty clear over the course of the past couple weeks how much he dislikes the way Elijah talks so openly about his hatred for the Capitol. The thing is that I can’t really blame either of them. I feel very similarly to Elijah—I, too, have a hatred for the place—and who can blame him after he was brutally tortured for entertainment, far surpassing that which most tributes are expected to endure? But I also understand that Pitch is only discouraging in Elijah what he discourages in me. Except where I lash out physically, Elijah lashes out vocally.

“When’s your next interview?” I ask, straying a bit from the topic of our fellow victor.

“You mean ‘our’ next interview. Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM.”

“Who else is going?” I ask.

“Just us,” he says.

“I can’t wait to hear what wonderful rumors they’ve managed to come up with in the span of 72 hours,” I mutter.

“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” Pitch says.

‘We.’ He is never planning on leaving me behind and saving himself on any of these interviews. Damnit, Pitch. Why does he have to be such a good person? It would be easier to reject him if I didn’t like him. But I remember what Esther said early on, about how I was lucky that I got along so easily with my co-mentor. It would probably be much, much worse if we hated each other. That would require acting skills far surpassing what little I have.

Still, I don’t want to destroy the friendship we have. It’s been the only thing that’s kept me going the past few weeks, and to have that shattered would be devastating.

“Do they always focus so much on victors whose tributes haven’t won?” I ask.

“Sometimes, especially if their tributes were big contenders,” Pitch replies. “I don’t think anyone gives a rat’s ass about Green anymore—nobody expected he could win and aside from one daring escapade, he didn’t really do anything that made people interested in him—but they probably remember Rosa fondly. Plus, of course, there’s us. And I’m sure you’re right that they have managed to get some more rumors since we were last interviewed.”

The thought chills me, and I suppress a shudder.

“Do you have any idea what it may be?” My voice is barely more than a whisper. What if they found something to charge me for? What if they’re going to have me arrested for assault or something?

“Let’s see. They’ve already had the pregnancy thing negated. They ‘know’ that we’re sexually active and that’s not just a rumor. And they have already brought up the potential assault,” he says. “It’s entirely possible that it’s something else, but I’d be prepared to be asked about your mental stability. There is a moose’s head that was torn off in the meadow somewhere.”

“It was a deer,” I reply sharply. “I don’t know how to answer any more questions about my mental stability. What am I supposed to say? Of _course_ I am struggling with handling this all and whatever. There’s no way I can deny what I’ve actually done.”

My shoulders slump and I stare vacantly off. It’s far easier to make up things you haven’t done than it is to claim that you haven’t done something that you did. What if, like Esther, I get arrested? But unlike her, I won’t have any way to disprove what I did. They’ll bring out the deer for proof. They’ll bring out Lala for proof. I’ll be guilty before I can even say anything.

“We’ll come up with something,” Pitch says. “Don’t worry.”

“Pitch, what do they do with victors who are not mentally stable? I mean, besides the ones like you who they can sweep under the carpet? If they find me to be mentally unstable, _everyone_ will know about it.” My voice shakes with unease. I look at Pitch expectantly, hoping that he will tell me that everything will be fine and that I’ll just get a bit of a check-up with Dr. Castillo and be on my way.

He doesn’t answer right away, and I know that’s not a good thing. It means either he doesn’t know or he knows but doesn’t know how to break it to me.

“Please,” I say. “Don’t try to protect me by not telling me.”

He looks at me, studies me. “It hasn’t happened in awhile,” he explains. “But the last time a mentor had to be hospitalized for mental issues—publicly-known mental issues—he was locked away for almost a full year. We don’t know what happened to him during that time, but he’s never been the same since he got out of there.”

No, I don’t want to be imprisoned and tortured and whatever else just because of Lala. That despicable woman! I’m too scared to be angry, though, because I’m aware that the Capitol is quick to jump to conclusions without hearing the full story. That’s what happened to Esther, and even in Hammer’s and Isolde’s stories, they were outright overruled because people preferred their own stories rather than the truth. And with me, there _is_ truth to it. I did hit Lala. I’ve gotten into confrontations with her on more than one occasion. No one will care about my side and about the things I overheard the woman say, not when they fully support that mindset.

“Juniper. You’re getting yourself worked up,” Pitch says. He’s right. I’m shaking and feeling so cold. I want to wrap myself under a hundred blankets and hide from everything right now. “I would offer you a hug . . . if you don’t think I’m trying to make advances.”

“You’re an idiot, Pitch,” I say, but I’m already crawling into his arms and curling up into his chest. I let his warmth flow through me.

We stay like this for an hour, maybe more. I’d remain that way forever but I can hear his stomach growling. So we find something to cook in the kitchen and spend the rest of the evening doing our best to avoid thinking about what tomorrow might bring.


	73. Chapter 73

In the morning, I wake up before Pitch but don’t move until I hear the alarm clock go off. Then we drag ourselves out of bed and head to the showers. The apartment has several bathrooms, so there’s more than enough space for both of us. And, unlike back home, we don’t have to worry about one person having cold water while the other one enjoys all the heat.

When we get to the interview, I’m surprised to find that it’s not actually an interview. It’s a photoshoot. The director explains that we are promoting some sort of Capitol-driven campaign to enhance the morale of the districts. “The district residents get a little low when the Hunger Games aren’t in session, so we’ll release this in a few months to help them focus on what’s important,” he says.

Yikes, okay. That’s totally not what happens, but who am I to tell them otherwise?

I can handle a photoshoot. I hate them because I hate promoting whatever bullshit the Capitol wants me to, but otherwise it’s normally a matter of being put into a stupid outfit and told how to pose. Talking is at a minimum, at least for me. Of course, I haven’t had many photoshoots myself. There were a few within the past year when Capitol-appointed photographers showed up to my house, but I’m not one of the most well-loved victors who constantly has the cameras following after her.

But then in strolls Lala. She wears high heels that make her appear a half head taller than normal, or perhaps it’s the way she has her hair piled up and curled with little birds’ nests tucked into the ringlets. Her makeup is heavy, especially around the fading bruise, but if I didn’t know she had been punched I’d think it was just the lighting. At first, Lala doesn’t pay any attention to either Pitch or myself. She goes to the director and starts talking with him about various angles, wardrobe changes, lighting, etc. Pitch and I exchange looks, but neither of us dare to say anything.

Because if this were an interview, there would be no need for Lala to be present. A photoshoot, on the other hand, requires the guiding hand of an experienced escort to make sure that everything is handled with perfection.

And then Lala is right in front of us, a formidable force that won’t let us escape her presence.

“A word with you two,” she says. She waves towards the crew, and they nod. Lala puts a hand on each of our shoulders, half-guiding, half-pushing us towards the door. We step into the bright sunlight. She releases her grip and immediately rounds on us.

“You two think you’re so clever, don’t you,” she hisses. Her mouth barely moves. Her expression remains cheerful. We’re in public and appearances must be kept up.

Pitch and I exchange another look. What the hell is her problem now?

“I think you’re going to have to explain,” he says to her. Good that he said something because whatever was going to come out of my mouth wasn’t going to be nearly so professional.

“You tell everyone that what Juniper did to me was an ‘incident,’ when it was _clearly_ assault!” she responds. “Now everyone thinks that it was some silly lark and not nearly as serious as it was, which makes everyone think that I over exaggerated the entire thing! How do you think that reflects on me?!”

“You told us that you weren’t going to tell everyone as long as there were no further issues,” I frown.

“Things changed. I had to adapt for evolving situations,” she said.

What a deplorable witch! I ball my hands into fists, but Pitch takes the closest hand, unfolds my clenched grip, and interlocks his fingers with mine.

“Furthermore, you have undermined my influence—all of my hard work—as the District 7 escort. Not _once_ have you credited me with anything that I have done this Hunger Games. You have taken all the success for yourselves!” she hisses. “I can’t believe what selfish, self-centered mentors I have to work with! I thought that Pitch was a terrible mentor, but that was before he got his hands on you, Juniper. I had such high hopes for you! You could have been like dear, sweet Vesa, or even like quiet Elm. Now I have two insufferable victors to deal with.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” I say dryly.

Lala’s eyes dart to my face and drill into me. If we weren’t here where passers-by could see us, I’m sure that she would be eager to try to pay back the bruise I gave her.

“You are a wretched girl,” she snaps. But somehow she still has the smile on her face to let anyone watching know that she is in control of the situation.

“Lala, what do you want us to do at this point?” Pitch asks, weariness weighing down his words.

“I want you to give credit where credit is due. I want you to tell everyone what a terrible pair of mentors you are!” she says. “And when you make sure that everyone knows how I was the driving force of District 7, only then will I drop the assault charges I have against Juniper.”

“What?!” I demand. “You did what?!”

Pitch squeezes my hand. “Damnit, Lala, you said you weren’t going to do that!”

“I told you. Things changed. If you hadn’t been so selfish, then maybe we wouldn’t find ourselves in this position!” Her saccharine smile is too much for me.

I turn away and look back at the building we’re supposed to be in right now getting our pictures taken. How the _hell_ do people look at this woman and think she’s a marvelous person?

“So you get back in there, and if you don’t change your story, then you can expect that things will take a very different turn for Juniper’s future,” she hisses. With one final smile, she opens the door and motions for us to enter. We are not allowed to linger behind and talk this over. We must face this entirely unprepared.

Pitch leads me back inside where we are greeted by a wardrobe and makeup team. Lala gives them permission to start working on us, and we are whisked away to dressing rooms just off the main room. I am able to give a small look in Pitch’s direction only once before we are separated.

The wardrobe team strips off my street clothes before stepping out of the room, leaving me standing in the room completely naked. I’m contemplating what Lala said and how we’re going to handle this when that wretched woman strolls right on into my dressing room. She looks me up and down before she meets my eye.

“Really, Juniper, you know that the things I’m telling you are for your own good,” she says with a drop of what may be real sadness. “Pitch isn’t a good influence on you, and I’m concerned about your future.”

I’m sure you are, lady. Which is why you chose to discuss this with me when I am completely naked in a dressing room. But then, moments later, the wardrobe and makeup team come back, wrap me in a gown, and sit me in a chair. They begin to work on my nails and hair, chatting with Lala as she follows after me. I don’t give her the satisfaction of having my attention. Instead I pretend to be mesmerized in whatever the team is doing to my nails.

“Make sure to put her in something a little slimming,” Lala instructs the head of the wardrobe team. “Her stylist always made sure to cover up the little bits of unwanted fat she gained back after her victory.”

 _I will not roll my eyes,_ I instruct myself. I am not fat. If anything, I’ve lost weight since I came to the Capitol. And even if I had excess fat on me, I wouldn’t care. Perhaps the insult would work better if I were a Capitolite concerned with the amount of food I gorge myself on, not a district resident whose meals are more focused on nourishment than opulence.

“She will look beautiful regardless of what anyone puts her into,” says one of the team members, oblivious to the fact that Lala was trying to insult me. It’s a very kind thing to say because although sometimes I do look nice in certain outfits, I’m definitely not the type of girl who can pull off any color or style. The woman looks up at me with admiration.

“Thank you,” I reply. I swallow the lump in my throat and stare down at the color of polish that’s being applied.

“Juniper was just telling me how hard the past couple weeks have been,” Lala casually slips into the conversation.

“Oh, I bet it’s been pretty tough. You’ve been so busy—I’ve seen all the interviews with you,” says one man.

Lala looks pointedly at me.

I clear my throat and force out some words: “I’m just . . . grateful that Lala has been with me to help.” The intonation of the last word rises, as though I might be asking a question. It doesn’t pass Lala’s standards, I can tell from her expression, so I try again. “She always makes sure that we get to where we need to go on time.”

Which is a massive lie. Lala pretty much bailed on us as soon as she saw the cute little tributes she got to play with this year. And then once she thought that Pitch and I were neglecting them, she wanted nothing more to do with us. I haven’t seen her since we left the training center, and she definitely hasn’t been the one to keep me up-to-date about interviews and meetings.

They all begin talking about the challenges of trying to herd people to the right place at the right time. Apparently the wardrobe and makeup team has tons of experience making sure that people are present when and where they’re supposed to be, so Lala has plenty of opportunity for people to truly understand her struggle. I start to tune them out, but I consciously force myself to listen.

“It’s the other one that is more troublesome,” Lala is saying. “Honestly can’t keep his hands to himself. Dating Martha _and_ trying to take advantage of Juniper.” She shakes her head and gives a _tsk_.

Martha. . . . Why does that name sound familiar?

“He’d rather be out wooing some lady than worrying about his tributes.”

No way. Is she really saying this bullshit about Pitch? Pitch who has been by my side for the past two weeks, who has been guiding all of us on how to survive the Hunger Games, who has cried himself to sleep over the death of his tribute?

“Shut up, Lala,” I snap, a blaze flaring inside of me.

Everything stops. All chatter, all movement, all everything. The entire room stares at me.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

What do I do?!

Why the hell did I say anything at all???

“Excuse me?” she asks incredulously.

How do I recover from this?

I lick my lips. “Is that not how we get people’s attention here?” I ask with as much innocence as I can push into my words. “I saw it on TV and thought it was what I was supposed to do.”

Lala doesn’t buy it, but a collective breath is released throughout the entire room. The various team members start reassuring me that it’s okay to make mistakes, and that I’m not just supposed to tell people to shut up mid-conversation. One lady explains that some of the ‘young people’ do that to their friends, but, she tells me with great seriousness, it’s nothing that we should be doing in professional situations or with our superiors.

I nod like I’m thankful that they explained it to me.

“Well, you have my attention,” Lala says when things calm down. “What did you want to say?”

All I wanted to say was for her to shut up and to stop talking about Pitch like that. But now I have to pretend that whatever I was going to say was much more . . . appropriate.

“You’re exaggerating the situation,” I say. “You put a curfew on him, remember?”

Is that good enough?

I don’t meet her eye to find out. I’m instead watching as the last bits of my nails are being finished.

“Besides,” I add. “He was—we both were—following your schedule to the T.”

When I catch the eye of the woman who is slipping a sock onto my foot, I say with a shrug, “Lala says that it’s like trying to herd cats.”

And then things carry on as usual. I’m clothed in a pair of overalls with a lacy flannel blouse that no one in all of District 7 would dare to be caught dead in. But at least it’s comfortable and it isn’t revealing. Then they drape a towel over my chest and shoulders so they can start on the makeup. I dare to glance over at Lala once, but she is busy in conversation with one of the workers, neither of them paying a bit of attention to me.

I wish I knew if I were doing this right. I wish I had the ability to speak easily and clearly. Some victors are very good at that. Isolde, for instance. She can be goofy and silly but when she’s placed in the spotlight, she is flawless in speech and diction. That was one of the reasons that it was so jarring to meet her—aside from the fact that she was a Career victor, of course. I had only seen her in interviews and on TV where she came across as powerful and in control.

When they finish with me, I take the hand of the lead wardrobe person who helps me stand up and out of the chair. The towel is removed and they lead me over to the mirror where I can admire their work. It’s mediocre—not bad at all, but certainly not something to be in awe over, especially when they seem to think I should be—but I give them smiles and thanks regardless. Then they leave me with Lala to wait to be called onto set.

“Don’t forget to tell them about you and how _you_ failed to be a sufficient mentor,” she says with a smile before the doors open and it’s time for the photoshoot to begin.


	74. Chapter 74

_Do I abandon Rosa to save myself?_

I take my seat on the chunk of log the director motions me to. The set is simple with a log on its side—I’m now sitting on it—and a couple of small pine tree seedlings behind me. Many times, people from District 7 are represented with axes or hatchets or other equipment, but they’ll never give me anything like that. Although murdering the photoshoot people is extremely illegal and very much forbidden so it’s highly unlikely anything would come of a weapon in my hand, there is also the unspoken fear that a victor will lose their shit at any time.

The director instructs me where to put my hands, how to hold my head, where my shoulders should be placed, etc. It’s tedious but otherwise not nearly as painful as an interview. Though, I remind myself, if it were an interview, there would be no need to have Lala present. But I smile and frown and stare off into the horizon at all the times they tell me to do it. The bright lights help me forget about the people on the other side of the equipment, and I allow myself to space out until it’s all finished.

When I’m released, I’m whisked back into the dressing room.

“Where’s Pitch?” I ask the woman who is helping me unbuckle the overalls.

Lala walks over to me. “We decided to do your photoshoots separately.”

That surprises me. Honestly. The way people have been harping over our relationship made me think that they’d do everything in their power to get us pictured together to fulfill their fantasies.

I slip out of my overalls and unbutton my shirt. Handing the clothes back to the attendant, I wait for them to return my street clothes. I consider scrubbing off the makeup before we leave, but I want to get away from Lala and back to Pitch as soon as possible. Removing the makeup enough to not look like a smeared-face freak would take a good five to ten minutes more.

Lala comes up to me and cups my face in her palms. Looking straight at me, she says, “You poor thing. You’re so naïve, aren’t you? I really think it would be a good thing if you forgot about Pitch. He’s far too old for you, and he really enjoys other women so much that it was only a matter of time before he broke your heart.”

I blink at her.

Is she telling me to break up with him?

After hyping up the relationship?

“Thanks for looking out for me,” I say perhaps a little too loudly when one of the workers comes back into the room with my clothes.

Lala releases her grip and takes the clothes from the lady. But not before pinching my cheeks between her thumbs and forefingers so hard that it brings tears to my eyes. She hands the clothes gently to me. Gifting me back my own wardrobe. Benevolent.

Then she turns to the workers coming back in and says sympathetically, “A first break-up is a hard thing to deal with. At least I was able to break the news after the pictures were taken.”

And I’m left there in Capitol underwear, holding my clothes against my chest, with tears welling up in my eyes.

The others murmur in agreement.

So I guess I was not good enough at convincing people of Lala’s greatness, was I? And this is her retribution. I’m so stunned that it’s all I can do to remove the undergarments and dress in my own clothes. Then I’m out the door into the main room before anyone can stop me.

Pitch isn’t here.

“Where is he?” I demand of Lala when she appears at my side.

“I don’t think you should confront him in public. Wouldn’t want you to get too angry at him for the callous way he treated you,” Lala says.

So I turn to the nearest crew member. “Where did Pitch go?”

“Said he went home,” he replied.

At least there is an answer. When did Lala dig her claws into him? When I was getting my pictures taken? What did she tell him that made him completely abandon me here?

“Thank you,” I say to the man, and to the nearby workers. “It was a very nice photoshoot.”

They smile at me, and I turn to head out the door. Pitch probably went back to my place. I doubt he went to his own. I am eager to get back and see what the hell just happened to us.

But Lala stops me, “I do hope you’re not too upset.”

I glare at her. “Yes, I’m going to go cry myself to sleep right now.”

“Not at your own place—he might be there collecting his things.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go wallow in misery somewhere else.”

She doesn’t receive any more of my attention right now. I leave without a formal goodbye, and head back out into the sunlight. As much as I want to go home right now, I’m afraid that she has people following me. It’s stupid, but I’m supposed to be madly in love with him, so what Lala delivered to me is supposed to be a devastating blow. I don’t want to accidentally reveal to her that it’s not the end of the world that we’re finally officially broken up. In fact, it will be a relief.

But as I climb onto the bus and take my seat, I realize with a jolt that this means I will no longer be able to hold his hand during interviews when things get too tense, or have him by my side when I’m overwhelmed. I won’t be able to use him as an excuse to get away from creepy Capitolites. She thought she was destroying our love, but in reality, she stole away my protection. In some ways that is far worse.

I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling of the bus as the vehicle jolts forward.

Even worse was not the fact that I no longer can use Pitch as my support and protection, but that it was not my choice. Sure, it wasn’t our choice to be in a relationship, but at least we had a little more freedom in how we handled it. Now that relationship has been ripped away from us without our permission. We are cold turkey cut off from each other. And if we try to say that Lala was mistaken or that we got back together or anything like that, then I will be shipped off to the Capitol’s favorite insane victor retreat.

The bus comes to a stop in the trendy industrial section of the Capitol and I clamber off. I’m not sure where to go from here, but after asking a few people, I find my destination. I ring the doorbell and for several long seconds afterwards, I panic that maybe nobody will be home. I’m not sure why I panic; it’s not like I can’t go somewhere else. But then I hear shuffling of feet and the door opens.

“Hey, Juniper,” says Esther.

“Hey. I’m here to cry into a bowl of ice cream and pour out my feelings,” I say flatly.


	75. Chapter 75

It takes Esther a bit to get the story out of me because 1) I don’t really have any desire to talk about it, and 2) I don’t want to drag her into the fiasco. But eventually she sends me to the bathroom to wash the makeup off my face and when I return, she has made us a nice little nacho bar at the kitchen counter. And then she sits me down in the chair.

“You came here,” she says. “Obviously you want something.”

“Pitch and I broke up, courtesy of Lala,” I say. And then I launch into the whole story.

By the time I finish, I’m so heated that I have abandoned all thoughts of food and am pacing frantically around her kitchen with heavy, uneven steps. My voice has risen, and I’m flailing the one tortilla chip I have in my hand around in the air as I gesture wildly.

“The good news is that tomorrow is the presentation of the victor and the final party,” Esther says calmly. “Then we can all go home and you don’t have to worry about it. By the time next year comes around, nobody will remember a thing. If they remember it, they won’t care.”

“That’s not what pisses me off!” I exclaim. Then I force myself to be quieter, though I can’t push away the anger in my voice. “She just waltzes in and tell us that we aren’t together. That’s it. We can’t be friends, we can’t be seen together in public, none of it!”

“Did she say that you can’t be friends or anything?” Esther dips one of her nachos in guacamole and takes a dainty bite.

“Not exactly, but she was giving me warnings to stay away from him and to not go home right now in case he’s collecting his things, blah blah blah,” I say. “In public. With everyone around.

“I’m sorry, Esther. This is so stupid. I’m just terrified of being deemed mentally unstable and being sent away somewhere.” I flop down on a chair at the counter and put my head in my hands. “What am I supposed to do when I have assault charges over my head?”

I look up in time to see Esther double dip into the guacamole. Our eyes meet and she starts to laugh. “Sorry, I forgot that I’m not alone. Not that I think that you’re boring or anything—quite the opposite!—I’ve just gotten so used to living here by myself whenever I come to the Capitol.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” I say. “If you were sixteen at home, you’d be required to live with adults unless you got emancipated or something. But here you’re given your own place at thirteen. Like things weren’t crazy enough for you at that time.”

“I’ve gotten to become very independent,” Esther says humbly.

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” I point out.

I kind of feel like an asshole complaining to Esther when she’s had much worse to deal with. Winning at thirteen, not having many mentors in her same district to help her out, having to navigate the Capitol by herself, living on her own, being charged for a murder that never happened. It makes all my problems seem so insignificant.

“I should probably go,” I say with a sigh. “I really appreciate the nachos, and I’m sorry I didn’t eat more. But I’m sure that Pitch is done ‘removing his things’ from the house or whatever.” I stand up and push my chair in.

“I’ll be ready to go to the party at five tomorrow,” Esther says. “Pick me up, okay?”

“Sure.”

She follows me to the door and leans against the frame as I leave. But then she says, “Juniper? They will always have control. But they can’t take away who we are.” She closes the door without waiting for a reply.

The apartment complex is pretty quiet at 3:00 PM, and I’m thankful that I don’t have to look at anyone as they go about their usual, day-to-day, not-controlled-by-the-government lives. The bus won’t come for another few minutes and I don’t feel like waiting, so I call a cab and climb inside.

I should be happy that the relationship was broken off, but I’m not. I’m pissed. And the more I think about it, the more pissed I become. They _will_ always have control, and it angers me so much that there will never truly be any respite for us. They come to our houses in the districts to have interviews and photoshoots. They make us come to the Capitol at least once a year for the Hunger Games. They bother us when we’re not mentoring in order to remind us of the tributes we’ve lost. They have complete control over our lives. Everything is a constant reminder of this.

And who am I? I am nothing but a pawn.

_And I am the girl who climbed on the stage. I am the girl who became tribute without being reaped and without volunteering. And I will not let anyone tell me who I can and cannot love, who I can and cannot be friends with, who I can and cannot respect._

When I get back to my apartment, I find Pitch about to leave. He really is taking his things. But I step inside, close the door, and block it.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What the hell just happened?”

Pitch looks defeated. His eyes are dark and his shoulders are slumped like a great weight is pressing against his body. “I am pretty sure we just broke up.”

“That’s all you’re going to say about it?” I ask.

“I thought you’d be happy to at least not have to deal with a fake relationship anymore,” he says. “Silver lining to this situation.”

“So did you break up with me, or did Lala?”

He sets down his bag and studies me carefully. Again, I know he is assessing me to figure out how best to answer. Not that it will affect the truth—he has never been a deceitful person—just how the truth will be delivered.

“Lala ‘explained’ to me what a bad influence I am on you, and that if I didn’t break up, then you would be driven insane, no doubt,” he says.

I slump against the door, suddenly exhausted. That woman is an unfathomably monstrous beast. I don’t know what to do at this point but accept it. Pitch and I are no longer together officially. Whatever. He’s right that neither of us have wanted to be together since this has started.

Pitch looks genuinely torn up about this. It’s in his eyes, his expression. Nothing about this makes him happy. It doesn’t make me happy, either, but he looks like this, for some reason, affects him more. He doesn’t have the anger I have; he only has an emptiness.

“What else?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“What else aren’t you telling me?”

He rubs his cheek absently and stares at the floor. “I was enjoying spending time with you. Not as an actual relationship—I never viewed it as that—but it was nice to have company in the Capitol for once.” He looks up at me. “And now I’ve been told that if I come near you, more than what’s socially appropriate for tomorrow’s event, then you’ll get arrested. Technically I shouldn’t even be with you here right now.”

“We just have to give Lala what she wants,” I say. “All she wants is to be promoted. And, frankly, I never want to see her face again, so I’m willing to do that.”

“And say we are terrible mentors in the process?” he asks.

I think about Rosa and Green. We did everything we could for them. We clung to them as they struggled in the arena. We fought for them to stay alive. We cried for them when they died. Their suffering, their death—it brought us indescribable agony. To say that we are terrible mentors would be to deny all that we did for them, all the emotions we felt. It would deny that we gave them hope when they had none. All of that would vanish. So was it worth letting people believe that we didn’t do what we were supposed to do, just so that we could save our own skins?

“Yes,” I reply.

“How could you . . . so easily . . . I mean . . . .”

“Because Rosa was a brat and a damned good manipulator. I don’t think she would have any qualms with us playing the game.”

Pitch gives me a wry smile. He doesn’t answer for a moment. “You certainly know your tribute,” he finally says.

“But I think that if we’re going to give Lala what she wants, then we should also make sure to give her what she doesn’t want,” I add. I don’t wait for Pitch to say anything because I’m afraid I’ll chicken out. I slip into his arms and press my lips against his. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me back. The warmth, the comfort, the happiness that he provides is inside me now, and I am contented and safe. At last we release each other.

“Let’s maybe . . . hold off on doing that again,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

But I grin at him, and he grins back. We’re such idiots.

“I still want to be your friend, and I don’t want anyone to take that away,” I say.

“They won’t, Juniper. I promise you, they won’t,” he says. Then he gives me another hug, kisses my forehead, and releases me. “I’ve got to go. If I don’t see you before tomorrow night, good luck. Everything will be fine.”

I pick up his bag and shove it at him. “Don’t forget this.” He takes it from me, and I add, “I’ll see you later.”

He heads out of the apartment, and I yell after him “And stay out!” and slam the door shut. But behind closed doors, I’m still grinning like a moron.


	76. Chapter 76

I pick up Esther at 5:00 PM sharp. She climbs into the waiting cab, struggling with the hem of her floor-length dress to keep it from getting snagged on anything. Once she’s all settled in, she smiles at me. “You ready?” she asks.

I hand her a coffee. “As ready as ever,” I reply.

It’s the night of the recap viewing. Presentation of the victor. It’s a terrible event in which the victor must sit on the stage in a large chair fit for royalty, and then everyone watches him as he watches the recap of the events that unfolded while he was in the arena. Of course all of us get to watch the recap as well, but there will be so much focus on how the victor holds himself together—or doesn’t—while seeing the arena as we saw it. Many Career victors gobble up the recap with enthusiasm, but not all. Some look just as horrified as any other victor. Others manage to hold their head up and pull through gracefully. And for those of us who lost a tribute, a family member, a friend, or a classmate, it’s just another painful reminder of their suffering and death.

As much as I miss having Pitch by my side, I’m grateful that Esther is here. Moreover, I am happy that she is not by herself for this, that she finally has somebody to stand with her and to support her. We arrive to our destination—the same massive amphitheater in which the interviews were held—and head inside together.

It’s chaotic inside. Everyone is dressed in long gowns and tuxedos as though this were a grand ball I’ve read about in many books. But instead of a celebration of marriage or birth or anything of the sort, it’s a celebration of murder. That, for certain, is not something that is ever written about.

I slip my hand in Esther’s as we make our way to our seats. The victors have our own section. No assigned seating, but it’s roped off so others can’t wander in. In passing, we greet other victors, or sometimes stylists, or the occasional escort. I haven’t seen Lala, but I’m also not really looking for her. I do, however, see Pitch. We hold each other’s gaze for a moment before tearing away. It’s hard not to laugh at the seriousness of our expressions. It’s like we’re trying to see who can be more serious than the other.

Bris is here. He and many other victors who weren’t mentoring came just for this occasion.

“Vesa had boys. Two of them,” he says.

“I knew it! I knew it had to be more than one.”

Bris says that he has been doing well. I can see that he is fatigued. Even being home and watching the Hunger Games from inside his mansion, he has felt the stress of being a victor. It’s something that we will never escape no matter where we are.

“Glad you and Pitch had a good time,” says old Liberty as she hobbles over.

“Oh, we aren’t together anymore,” I say.

She smiles at me a knowing smile and pats my hand. “I understand, dear.” Then she slowly heads off to find a seat.

Does she? Does she understand?

I let it go and lead Esther over to a couple of empty chairs. We end up sitting between Demeter from District 11 and Rikuto of District 6. As we wait for the event to start, we chat idly with each other, talking about our next steps in the near future. Demeter is eager to go on her honeymoon which had been delayed over two months after the wedding so it wouldn’t interfere with the Hunger Games. It turns out that she married a man from the Capitol, and I can’t help but wonder if she did it for love or for protection. I don’t ask because that is not something that I am meant to know. Rikuto is considering opening up a nonprofit to help elementary school kids get first-hand experience on transportation design. It doesn’t sound interesting to me, but then again, I prefer trees rather than cars.

The lights dim. The crowd gives excited “oooh!”s and “shhh!” Then the curtains draw back and there is Caligula Klora. He waves to everyone, greets us all, and gives a small talk about how exciting this Hunger Games was. Then he begins to introduce the various people who were influential in the development of the victor: the prep team, the escort, the stylist, the mentor. This is Gill Tide’s first successful tribute, but he handles the entire thing very professionally.

“Are you ready to meet your victor?!” Caligula calls out.

The crowd goes nuts. People cheer, scream, whoop, whistle—all sorts of noises. It takes a couple minutes for things to get back under control. Then a hush falls over the crowd until we see the very top of Fjord’s head is peeking up through the bottom of the stage. He is lifted up by a pedestal, just like he was when he entered the Hunger Games, and now he is greeted with an audience that just starts screaming like nothing I’ve ever heard before. They love him.

Fjord is beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Every girl in Panem is glued to her television screen right now, I think. He was not a bad looking person to begin with, but that was when he was rough. Now he has been cracked open and polished so that everyone can see the way he gleams. His features have been accentuated by surgeon’s knife and makeup. His hair has been lightened, his eyes are greener, his face looks that much more manly. It’s not a massive change—they didn’t alter him drastically—but you can see that they have played to his strengths. It’s hard to take my eyes off him.

“Wow,” Esther whispers beside me.

And as I’m mesmerized by this new victor, a sudden and dark thought flashes ever so briefly through my mind: they have made him the way they want him, just like they chose Pitch to be what they wanted. But the thought vanishes as Fjord raises a hand in a wave and steps forward amidst the wild cheers.

Gill moves out to greet him. They shake hands. Then Fjord shakes the hands of everyone on stage before Gill guides him to the throne on which he will sit for the viewing.

The recap is three hours long and is just as terrible as watching it the first time. Perhaps moreso because they have put it to music and edited it to make it more dramatic. They linger on deaths and highlight kills. It’s a disgusting thing to watch, and I wish I could tear my eyes away from the screen. But I can’t because it’s just so fascinating to know that I was there the entire time. Not physically in the arena but behind the scenes. I remember where I was when certain events happen. I remember the things that went through my head.

Although most of the time is spent on Fjord and his alliance—especially with Oceana—they still show all the tributes at least once, and they show all their deaths as well. Esther squeezes my hand when Taylor disappears into the fog that one final time, and I am almost reduced to tears again when the sword enters into Rosa’s small body. But the two of us manage to make it through, and at long last, the lights turn back on. Fjord looks a little stunned, but he recovers well and stands up. He waves again to everyone, and at last the event is over and we are dismissed.

The party will be at the president’s mansion. It’s by invite only, of course, and only the most powerful or wealthiest people are invited. And we victors are all expected to attend.

Esther and I stay close together as we pretend to be engaged with all the guests at the party. People aren’t quite so interested in us now that our tributes’ deaths are old news; they want to be near the new victor in case he might happen to glance their way. After all, most of them paid a good sum of money in sponsorship gifts and it’s only their right to be able to spend a few moments talking with him.

“How’s your stomach doing?” I casually ask Esther.

“Fine right now,” she says, then she takes a bite of her third slice of cake for the evening. I can’t help but laugh at her. It had better be fine if she’s managing to eat that much sugar. She doesn’t seem to understand what I find so amusing and instead narrows her eyes at me.

I’m feeling a bit silly. It’s almost the end of everything. I can almost go home. I’ve ignored Pitch for the entire evening—barely even saw him at all tonight—and I’m thoroughly enjoying Esther’s company.

We’re sipping glasses of bubbling apple juice when a woman walks by us to get to the dessert table, a large display of excess in the form of sugars, creams, and chocolate. But in passing, she stops and says hello.

“Juniper and Esther! So nice to see you two victors together. Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you. How about you?” Esther answers.

The woman smiles at her. “It’s the loveliest party I’ve been to in awhile.”

Esther turns to me. “This is Lunabelle Garland,” she introduces. “She sponsored many tributes this year. And Ms. Garland, it sounds like you already know who Juniper is.”

“Yes, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear,” the woman says, taking my hand and giving it a small kiss. “How has your first year been mentoring?”

“It’s been pretty tough, honestly,” I say. Here we go. “I’m really grateful that Lala was such a strong presence, as always. She held us together when things were getting a bit dicey.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s good to know that Lala and you guys got along. I’ve heard rumors. . . .” The woman eyes me with a hint of restrained eagerness. She wants those rumors. She wants to know them all.

“We had our moments. Things got a bit emotional, between it being my first year and, you know, being with Pitch, but I now know that things’ll have to be a bit different next year to work out better. I’m just sorry that, you know—”

Lunabelle Garland leans in closer. She doesn’t know.

Because I’m about to make it up right now. I am about to channel my inner Rosa.

“Well, I’m really happy for Lala. I hear she’s been promoted. It’ll just be really weird without her, and I hope that we’ll manage not having her around.”

The woman’s eyes light up. “She’s been promoted?” she asks eagerly.

“That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t know if it’s anything official or not,” I say. “Someone else said—” I pause to crane my neck and look over the crowd as though I might be able to identify who that ‘someone else’ actually is, but then I look back at Lunabelle “—that her ability to hold things together so well, between two young tributes and a new mentor, that she was a shoe-in for a promotion.”

“Well! I’m happy to hear that! She really deserves it,” says Lunabelle Garland. “And I hear that Tuna McGurlph is leaving District 2 to pursue a musical career, so I guess it all just works out!”

It sure as hell better, I think. Because if not, I’m in deep shit for spreading this lie.

“Oh, I didn’t know that! What a great idea to follow her passion for music,” I say, assuming that someone named Tuna might be female. Might be male. I don’t even know anymore. But I guessed right, I think, because the conversation just keeps going. I hate it all, but I don’t even let myself think about it right now. At long last, Lunabelle Garland wishes me goodnight and skidders off to go find someone else to gossip with.

I turn to Esther who is staring at me wide-eyed. “What the hell was that?”

“Just a rumor, I heard,” I say. “One that I sure as hell hope is true.”

We run into a few other Capitolites throughout the night who engage us in conversation. I drop in Lala’s promotion every once in awhile, and it’s not long before the rumors start circulating back to me. Somebody who told somebody who told somebody about the District 7 escort getting promoted; have you heard anything about it?

I’m really hoping it works out when I turn around to find Quintus Laurentinus standing at the punch bowl. He sees me and comes right on over. I am tempted to hang onto Esther and keep on running, but I know that one way or another, I will have to face this monster. Running will only make it worse. So I turn around and stand my ground.

“What a pleasure seeing you two here tonight!” he exclaims. He is made up with light accents of color on his beautiful face, and his hair is carefully brushed and styled back and out of the way. He turns his attention to me. “Juniper, would you like to take a walk with me? If that’s okay with your friend?”

It’s okay with neither of us, but I tell Esther it will be just a couple minutes and let Quintus guide me towards the courtyard outside.


	77. Chapter 77

The evening is cool and lovely. It would be even lovelier if Quintus did not have his hand on my back. I don’t like it. I want to run away. I can’t, of course, so I just have to deal with the pressure of his palm on the small of my back, his fingers digging into my skin through the soft fabric of my dress. He leads me over to a quiet area and we sit down on the lip of a reflecting pool. The water trembles gently with the soft breeze around us.

“Juniper, it’s such a beautiful evening,” he says, his hands on mine. “Though there is always a bit of melancholy associated with the end of the Hunger Games. It’s bittersweet.”

Bitter, definitely. I say nothing but gaze out into the darkness at a bush carved into the form of a great swan. The topiary is perched in a row of bushes at the edge of a sprawling lawn. Quintus follows my gaze and turns to see what I see. When his eyes adjust to the darkness and he sees what I’m looking at, he moves closer to me.

“It won’t harm you, I promise,” he reassures me.

“It doesn’t bother me,” I tell him. A lie, but I think it is delivered with enough confidence that it’s hard to identify it as such. What bothers me is the way his hand is moving off mine and slipping towards my thigh, leaving my fingers to feel the cool breeze of the summer evening.

He seems to accept it because he’s talking again on a different subject: “I hate to see you leave the Capitol so soon. Surely you wouldn’t mind staying an extra couple of days.”

I turn and look at him. Directly in the eye.

I think of the conversation I had with Pitch, and I know that I cannot tell this man whose hand is rubbing my leg without permission to go fuck himself. Pitch is right—I am playing a dangerous game.

“What do you want from me, Quintus?” I ask him directly.

Quintus’ eyes light up at the boldness of my question. His free hand goes to my face and brushes against my cheek.

“Nothing but your company,” he says. He leans closer and I’m afraid he’s going to kiss me. But I only feel his breath upon my skin as he whispers, “I am one of your biggest supporters.”

My heart beats so quickly that I can barely think. There’s anger and fear and something else all swirling around within me, and it’s clogging my chest, my throat, my mouth, my brain. Is this how it starts? Is this how the descent into undesired relationships start? I am only eighteen, and I have many, many years ahead of myself; will they all be plagued with unwanted intimacy?

I think about what Esther told me: they will always have control, but they can’t take away who we are.

And who am I but the girl who issued herself her own death sentence and pulled herself back out? I have simplicity and determination. I have passion. And though I know that I will be controlled for the rest of my life, I will do my damnedest to make it as challenging as possible.

So I reach out and push Quintus back away from me. He starts and the anger flashes in his eyes.

“If that’s the case, I want something first,” I say before the anger has a chance to reach his mouth.

He isn’t a man who gets told no, but I also know that he admires the fight in me. So he humors me, “What is that, my dear?”

“I want a garden. A memorial garden. I want it right in the middle of the training center so that the mentors can visit it whenever we want.” I hold his gaze. “It’s really uncomfortable sitting in those chairs all day long and it would be nice to stretch our legs in a place of beauty without having to stare at screens nonstop.”

A smile plays on his lips. “ _You_ want a garden?”

“Yes, is that a problem?” I ask.

He stares at me with amusement. And possibly admiration. “Not at all.” His hand is on my cheek again. “I can appreciate the desire for beauty.”

I stand up, and he stares at me. “I will talk with you later, Quintus,” I say.

Now he stands up, too, and faces me. “And when will later be?”

“Whenever you build me my garden.”

He gives me a small smile, then leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t worry—you will have your garden,” he whispers, his lips brushing across my skin.

“Thank you,” I manage to say with finality before I turn and leave.

I can feel his eyes on my body as I walk away. And I know that as long as I have Quintus yearning for me, I don’t have to worry much about the threats of being arrested for assault. Quintus is far more powerful than Lala, and if he wants me around for himself, a mere escort will not stand in his way. But I can play the game, too, and I can draw this out for as long as possible. Perhaps he will get bored and forget me. Perhaps not. But that’s something I will think about another time. For now, I rejoin Esther at the party and wait for this whole thing to be over.


	78. Chapter 78

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed. I thought I’d be more excited to leave the Capitol, but now I can understand why Quintus said it’s bittersweet, even if he meant it in an entirely different context. I will be leaving many of the people who have helped get me through the past few weeks.

My sleep was sporadic and not nearly as restful as I had hoped. My dreams were uneven, uncoordinated, and confusing. I miss having Pitch sleep next to me, and I find myself aching for his company. Now that we are forbidden from seeing each other, I want nothing more than to be with him. His presence is comforting, and I think I need some comfort right now.

After showering, I box up the belongings I’ll be taking with me, and I package the food into bags to be donated. I won’t be back here for another year, if I’m lucky, and I certainly don’t want to come back to find ants and rodents. I then spend some time making phone calls to Isolde and Esther to wish them goodbye.

“Can I come visit you in District 8?” I ask Esther. “I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like—really looks like.”

There’s a smile in her voice as she says, “I don’t know if it’s allowed, but I’d love to have you visit if you can.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” I reply. “Oh, and Esther? Thank you for being there. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“It was lovely to meet you and to spend time with you.” Her voice is so sweet, so kind. “I’d say that I look forward to seeing you next year, but I’m really not looking forward to being back at the Capitol, so I hope you can visit me in District 8.”

I have nothing to do until it’s time to leave, so I sit on the couch and stare blankly at the television. It’s turned off. I couldn’t bear to listen to any more of the news. They are still talking about Fjord and his success, and now they’re also making predictions about next year’s event. How do these people manage to think of nothing but the Hunger Games day in and day out? It’s sickening. So I’m happy to just watch a black screen and wait until it’s time for me to call a cab.

There’s a knock on the door, and I start. I want it to be Pitch, but I know it can’t possibly be. The second thought is that it’s Lala come to murder me. But when I crack open the door a little, I see that it’s Elijah.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “I thought you were my escort coming to finish me off.”

He grins. “Nah. I’m just here to take you to the train station. Don’t worry, we’re taking a cab; I’m not driving.”

“I wasn’t really worried about that one,” I mutter. But I grab my bag filled with a few books to keep me occupied, and I close the door behind me. The avoxes will be over shortly to remove the rest of my belongings and get it loaded up on the train, so there’s no need to worry about them.

“So why did you really come?” I ask as we head down the stairs.

“I told you—I was sent to pick you up,” he says.

“By whom?”

“I think you know that answer.” His cane makes a constant but quiet tap-tap-tap across the floor, guiding him on his way.

The only person I can think of is Pitch, but he always voices his discontent with Elijah’s outspokenness, so I can’t fathom why he’d send him to accompany me. We reach the bottom stair and I open the door outside.

“Thank you, Elijah,” I say once we are outside under the morning sunlight. At least, I think it’s still morning. The party was so late last night and I laid in bed when I woke up longer than I should have.

“For what?”

“For moral support.”

He chuffs at that. “Sure.” After a moment, he adds, “Oh, hey, so I heard a rumor. Something about us getting a garden in the training center.”

I stare at him. Has that rumor already gotten around? Is nothing private in this place? “Really?!”

“Turns out most people have a tendency to ignore me. I’m actually a lot quieter than people give me credit for,” he says.

“You were there? You heard it all?” I demand.

He doesn’t answer me directly. “Now, if I were Pitch, I’d tell you to be very careful and watch yourself when dealing with powerful people. And also some optimistic bullshit about tributes. But I’m not him, so I’ll say that I think you should tell more people to shove it up their ass if you get the chance. Especially if we get gardens out of it.”

“Thanks?” I hesitate. “I think?”

He leads me to a cab and opens the door, motioning for me to get in. I do, and he follows afterwards. It is a short and silent drive to the train station. The city itself is quiet. The last of the Hunger Games parties have finished, and the rush of excitement from the past few weeks has deflated. Everyone must go back to their normal lives, whatever that may be.

“When does your train leave?” I ask him as we get closer to the station.

“About an hour after yours,” he says. “Not too long. But I rather hate train rides, so I’m in no great hurry.”

“Not excited to get back to District 5, then?” I look out the window at the crowds of people who have no doubt come to see off the District 4 train. I’m happy when the cab driver makes a turn before then and heads to a quieter area of the station where we can get in without being immersed in throngs of people.

“Oh, I am. Just not for the train,” he says. “Hope it’s not delayed this time. My wife will be waiting for me and I’d hate to leave her on the platform for hours like last year.”

“You’re married?!” I ask incredulously.

Elijah turns toward me. “What? Blind people can get married.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that you’re kind of an asshole. I didn’t think that—”

“Get out of the damned cab, kid, okay?” he says. We’ve come to a stop. I grumble something but we each exit out of our own door.

There is still a small crowd come to see us off, but it’s mostly people that we know from the training center. Stylists, prep team, various staff members. I don’t see Lala anywhere. I do see Bris and Liberty who are catching this train back home with us after their brief visit to the city. Then Pitch approaches us out of the crowd.

“We’ll be leaving in a half hour,” he tells me. Then to Elijah, “Thanks for bringing her.”

“No problem. I enjoy being wrapped up in people’s feuds. See you next year for some more child-killing fun.” He doesn’t give us a chance to say more than a ‘goodbye’ before he’s gone off to wait for his own train.

I turn to Pitch. “I thought you weren’t allowed to be around me,” I say.

“I’m not. But it’s not like we can have a restraining order in the train station, not when there are only twenty people here and we’re getting on the same train.”

“And I thought you said you didn’t like Elijah,” I say. “Yet you send him to pick me up.”

“He got the job done and in a timely manner,” Pitch says simply. “Besides, I had to send someone you’d actually get into a car with.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say.

Pitch pauses and looks at me. “I miss you,” he says. “I don’t think it would be good to be seen lingering together, though. So I guess I’ll see you on board, or at least back in District 7.”

I agree, but for a moment, neither of us move. It’s hard to draw ourselves away when it’s evident that we both need each other desperately right now. How can we deal with returning empty-handed if we don’t have the support we need?

At last, he turns away.

All I can really think is how much I hate Lala and I am glad that she’s not here because I may punch her. But instead I just watch as Pitch heads back towards Liberty and picks up her bag for her. They appear to resume whatever conversation they had stopped when my cab pulled up.

Feeling alone and rather empty, I find a bench and plop down. The only person I want to be around right now is forbidden, so I might as well try to fill up the aching loneliness with a book. Pulling a novel out of my backpack, I flip it open and begin to read to pass the time. It’s only about fifteen minutes before we are instructed to get on the train. Lala isn’t here yet. I don’t know if it’s because she really has enough of us or if she’s been killed in some unfortunate accident. I’m hoping for the latter because I’m probably a terrible person.

I climb into the train and head to my room. I’m tempted to just crawl into bed and try to catch up on the sleep I missed last night, but I know that it would just throw off my sleep cycle and I’d be wandering the train at 2:00 AM. But besides sleeping, I don’t know how to deal with the ache and misery that eat away at me. The sadness carves away into my chest, hollowing out my insides. I feel more lonely than I have since I stepped foot on this train after the reaping. It’s worse than being in the training center apartment after the start of the Hunger Games because we are returning empty-handed. The ghosts around us are literal; the children who we accompanied are gone. Dead. They will never return. And Pitch and I will step out of this train to an empty station knowing that we were not able to save the children we promised to help.

My room is in pristine condition. The bedspread is tucked neatly under the mattress, the closet stocked with clothing, the bathroom sparkling. It is as though I never once touched this room. There is no comfort here.

After all I’ve been through, I understand now that isolating myself from others isn’t the right choice. I’d only end up feeling cornered and afraid like Pitch was. The misery would eat me alive from the inside out. There are few who understand what I’m going through right now, and I cannot be cut off from them.

So I grab up my book and head to the lounge to read and watch the landscape go by.

In the lounge car, I find Pitch sitting on one of the couches, flicking idly through television stations for something—anything—that is not related to the Hunger Games. I stand there for a moment before coming to join him on the couch. Sitting right next to him, I make myself comfortable.

“Juniper, we’re not—”

I look him in the eye and say, “Lala can go fuck herself.”

Pitch studies me for a moment, taking in every detail he can. “Alright then.” And he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer so that I am once again in the warm embrace I so horribly need. I hug my book to my chest, put my head on Pitch’s shoulder, and close my eyes. I find myself drifting off to sleep, barely feeling the sensation of the train when it finally starts moving.

And that’s how Lala finds us, curled up together on the couch. She gives a huff of annoyance that wakes me up. Pitch glares at her. It’s a long ride back to District 7, and Lala must keep up appearances. And anyway, what power does she have over me? I’ve done what she wanted. And I have the eye of someone far more powerful than she is. I’m not surprised when Lala turns away as though seeing us together on the couch doesn’t bother her and heads towards the dining car to order some poor avoxes around.

The ride back to District 7 is a somber one. No one speaks much. No one visits the dining car where we spent so much time with our tributes. Even Bris and Liberty stay away, preferring either the lounge with Pitch and me or the solitude of their rooms. When evening comes, I sleep with Pitch in his room. Neither of us mentions Lala. Neither of us mentions what will happen between us when we get back home. Instead we sleep soundly, only waking with a rap at the door from an avox come to alert us that we are getting closer to the District 7 train station.


	79. Chapter 79

I have survived my first Hunger Games as mentor. There is a feeling of guilt for returning unsuccessful. Pain of watching a child die, knowing that I was supposed to help her. I will never forgive myself for failing to save her, even if the odds were greatly stacked against her. Logic tells me that it’s not realistic to beat myself up over it because that’s how it will be year after year after year, and yet I cannot stop feeling this way.

My parents are waiting for me when we arrive. They wrap me up in their arms and kiss my forehead. Neither of them say anything about seeing me on TV, about my relationship with Pitch, about the awful things they watched me go through. Because they were unable to help me, just as I was unable to help Rosa. However, they do greet Pitch, too, giving him hugs and thanking him for being with me. I would be offended that they think I needed to be babysat except that I know now that it’s true.

And Willow Elowen is here, just as she was waiting for me last year. She and her sister come over to me and embrace me. There are no words to explain what’s going on. How can one say, “Thank you for facing a lifetime of unending suffering just to save me from death last year”? Neither of them—no one here in the district—knows the extent to which they torture us within the confines of the Capitol. But still they see the ache and pain we go through as we struggle to bring back our tributes and they know that I would not have to endure it had I not stepped up and taken Willow’s place.

Our welcome home is brief. There aren’t nearly as many people here as there were last year, and that’s fine with me. I don’t think I could handle having so many around me when I know that I have failed.

Where do we go from here? How do we continue on with life knowing that there is a great, gaping chasm inside of us?

As we turn to leave, I take Pitch’s hand. “Want to come over for dinner?” I ask. “I think my mom is making something plain and boring and not at all up to Capitol standards.”

He squeezes my hand. “Sure.”

**_The End_ **


	80. Thank You

Massive thanks to everyone who made it through this novel. When I started writing, I never imagined that it would blossom into nearly 80 chapters and over 125,000 words. My intention had been to write maybe 10-15 moderate-sized chapters. Regardless, I have loved writing every minute of it, and I hope that you have enjoyed reading it. (I mean, if you made it this far and you’ve hated it, you’re nuts.)

I would especially like to thank those who gave me kudos and who commented on this. Brook1, thanks for the feedback and the appreciation. Darth_Nell, it was so awesome to have someone following every step of the way giving random comments and insight—it made it so much more enjoyable to me knowing that I had a “fan” and I wasn’t just writing into the void.

I admit that I feel a bit of a hole right now knowing that I have finished this story, so it is inevitable that I will be starting another story within this same Hunger Games universe. I’m not certain what it will be, but I do have a few bits of ideas floating in my head. If you have any suggestions or preferences on characters, settings, themes, etc., let me know and I’ll see if I can make it happen. 

Again, thank you.


	81. Characters

VICTORS (mentioned in this story)

Juniper Sadik --- District 7 --- 140th Hunger Games

Rikuto Cord --- District 6 --- 139th Hunger Games

Esther Hugh --- District 8 --- 138th Hunger Games

Gill Tide --- District 4 --- 137th Hunger Games

Isolde Lee --- District 1 --- 135th Hunger Games

Hammer Williams --- District 1 --- 134th Hunger Games

Elijah Asher --- District 5 --- 133rd Hunger Games

Lady McClure --- District 10 --- 131st Hunger Games

Elm Cottonwood --- District 7 --- 130th Hunger Games

Terra Woods --- District 12 --- 129th Hunger Games

Butch Granite --- District 2 --- 128th Hunger Games

Pitch Yassen --- District 7 --- 125th Hunger Games

Colton Farms --- District 10 --- 123rd Hunger Games

Jericho ____ --- District 1 --- 122nd Hunger Games

Vesa ____ --- District 7 --- 120th Hunger Games

Demeter Sawyer --- District 11 --- 119th Hunger Games

Calico Smithers --- District 8 --- [Games]

Bristlecone (Bris) ____ --- District 7 --- [Games]

Liberty ____ --- District 7 --- [Games]

TRIBUTES (who are named)

Glitz --- District 1 male

Joy --- District 1 female

Alina --- District 2 female

Fjord --- District 4 male

Oceana --- District 4 female

Nicola --- District 5 female

Helmut --- District 6 male

Evergreen (Green) --- District 7 male

Ponderosa (Rosa) --- District 7 female

Taylor --- District 8 female

Phil --- District 10 male

Coal --- District 12 male

CAPITOL CITIZENS

Lala --- District 7 escort

Leander --- District 7 stylist (for Rosa)

Tasha --- District 7 stylist (for Green)

Pythia Todner --- reporter

Salsa --- District 7 prep team (for Rosa)

Trevor --- District 7 prep team (for Rosa)

Staria --- District 7 prep team (for Rosa)

Caligula Klora --- Hunger Games interviewer

Janice Lovely --- Hunger Games announcer

Romela Dernsnuff --- citizen

Bornsburry Sunlap --- citizen / financial backer of Juniper

Quintus Laurentinus --- citizen / financial backer of Juniper

Dr. Castillo --- doctor who makes house calls to training center

Barton Copperwell --- citizen

Martha Woolylamb --- arena designer

Lunabelle Garland --- citizen / tribute sponsor

OTHERS

Barbara Oak --- District 7 mayor

Laurel Shrubsprout --- previous tribute (District 7)

Susannah --- previous tribute (District 1)

Oren --- District 7 citizen

Willow Elowen --- District 7 citizen


End file.
